Apogee
by Frau Bielschmidt
Summary: When his son is murdered, Roose Bolton is unwilling to allow Ramsay Snow to inherit the Dreadfort and is forced to betroth his daughter to the son of another noble house. An unexpected option presents itself.
1. I

**-One-**

 **Roose**

It could never be said that Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, did not love his children. In fact, he did so very much, in his own way, and though they spent more time outside their family's ancestral keep than in it, it in no way diminished the Leech Lord's subtle, albeit strong, fatherly sentiments. Sentiments which, for the past three days, had relegated the lord to a period of intense, self-imprisonment within the dungeons of the Dreadfort.

The haunting, agonized screams emanating from beneath the keep, more beast than man in their last moments, were testament to his dedication to his family, as well as the enormity of his rage – and grief. Apart from those screams, it was eerily quiet in the Dreadfort. No one dared speak a word, for fear of disturbing the final repose of Domeric Bolton, former heir to the Dreadfort. He lay, dead and cold, far removed from the dungeons. Dead of sickness, some said. Others claimed it was poison. Either way, it had happened shortly after the boy made it his personal mission to integrate the Leech Lord's bastard son into the Bolton fold –a sentimental and very foolish venture, one which Roose had mightily opposed, knowing the nature and proclivities of his firstborn. Domeric had not. And now retribution was the Leech Lord's.

Merciless, some thought him. He put his own reputation to shame in those days. Every servant, every guard, who had contact with the Bolton heir during his fool's errand fell to Roose's blades and imagination. Even the maester who failed to find a cure was not exempt.

At last, when the Leech Lord did emerge, paler and gaunter than ever, no one dared come near him. He went directly to his chambers and, with the haunted gaze of a rabid dog, began feverishly drafting a missive.

* * *

 **Eddard**

"My Lord, I've received a raven. From the Dreadfort." Ned Stark looked up with a frown at the approaching maester. Roose Bolton only sent correspondence when the need was dire.

"I will take it, Luwin. Thank you." The maester inclined his head.

"Of course, my lord."

Ned examined the miniature flayed man imprinted into the wax seal before breaking it. The Lord Bolton was not one to mince words and his letter reflected as much. It was confined to three lines, all short and direct, bordering on insolent. Ned's expression darkened with each one.

"What does he want of you?" Luwin inquired, genuinely curious.

"His son is dead. He will be here by the end of the week." The old maester raised both white brows.

"Losing his only son… that is quite the blow. The poor man."

"Do not let him hear you say that," Ned chuckled, "I must tell Catelyn and the children. Write back to him, if you will. Tell him we will be happy to play host to him and his company."

In truth, Ned was far from happy. Of all his bannermen, Roose Bolton was the one he trusted the least. The Starks and the Boltons had clashed in the past, with the latter having risen in rebellion on multiple occasions. Furthermore, Ned possessed little insight into the current Lord Bolton's mind and would not have liked to go against him in armed conflict. Undoubtedly, Bolton would fall, but not without heavy casualties on both sides. Far better was it to keep the Leech Lord happy and far removed from the Stark family.

Lord Bolton arrived with limited fanfare a few days later, looking worse for wear and particularly implacable. Ned, Catelyn, the children, and some other of the premier members of the household assembled to greet him. Ned took stock of them all, his children stood tall and proud as befitted their rank, especially Robb and Sansa, of whom he was particularly proud; behind them were his bastard son Jon Snow, taciturn as ever, and Theon Greyjoy, his ward, who fixed a disdainful expression upon the arriving party. Roose Bolton slid languidly from his horse and fixed his pale, unnerving eyes solely on his liege lord.

"Lord Stark, I appreciate you meeting with me on such short notice," he said briskly, and without decoration. Ned inclined his head respectfully.

"I am very sorry to hear of your loss. My family and I offer our condolences." Bolton said nothing after that, at which point Catelyn tactfully suggested they go inside. The few men the accompanying the Leech Lord were taken to their quarters while Ned accompanied the lord himself to one of the guest rooms. Supper was a quick, tense affair, during which it fell to Catelyn and the children to keep the conversation flowing. Lord Bolton said practically nothing, choosing instead to observe the Starks with those pale eyes of his. Ned could not pinpoint where his interest primarily lay.

"How long will you be staying, Lord Bolton?" Cat asked cordially, the picture of highborn ladyship. Roose looked at her with a slightly bewildered expression, as though he hadn't expected to be spoken to.

"A day, perhaps two," Ned practically had to strain to hear his voice - no doubt that was his intention. Catelyn seemed to have no trouble, or if she did she was masterful at hiding it.

"You are welcome to stay longer, if it pleases you," Ned prayed he wouldn't. It had been hard enough trying to convince Arya to mind her manners for this one night; he didn't wish to have to cajole her into doing so for longer.

"I cannot, my lady Catelyn. Though I thank you for the offer," Bolton looked back at his plate, which he scarcely touched. Ned supposed it was not out of the ordinary for a man who had just lost his son and heir, though if he were honest, the man was far too calm for his liking. In the end, he credited it to Lord Bolton's nature - he was not one to wear his heart on his sleeve – but that did not mean Ned had to like the way he looked at them, as though they were all pieces of meat, ready to be devoured. The sooner he found out what it was he wanted and was gone, the better it would be for all of them.

"Is it true you keep the flayed skins of your enemies?" The stunted conversation stopped dead when Arya spoke. Silence reigned, except for Sansa's gasp and Theon's snicker. Arya sat up straight and tall, unaware or simply uncaring of her rudeness. Catelyn was on her in an instant, eyes blazing.

"Arya!" she hissed, "You will leave now, go to your chambers. I will have words with you later." Ned's youngest daughter opened her mouth to protest but the look on Cat's face silenced any and all dissent. She pushed her chair back from the table and meekly exited the great hall.

"My Lord Bolton, you must excuse my daughter's vulgarity. She is out of sorts tonight."

For Roose Bolton's part, his face remained impassive as he gazed at Ned.

"Tis of no matter to me, Lord Stark," he said in quiet, silken tones and supper resumed with an uncomfortable hastiness.

Ned met with Lord Bolton the following morning. He sat behind his desk, the Lord of the Dreadfort before him, and tried not to feel unnerved by the man's penetrating gaze.

"You indicated in your letter that you wished to discuss a matter of great importance. So, what is it I can do for you?"

"As you know, my son is dead. Though the circumstances of which are not what you have been lead to believe," Ned inclined a brow, "Domeric was murdered, I am sure of it, by someone with a vendetta against House Bolton."

"If that is true, then justice must be served," Ned said seriously, his eyes narrowed. Lord Bolton did not move.

"I have dealt with the perpetrator."

For a long moment Ned just looked at him, trying to discern what he meant by 'dealt with,' before deciding that he'd rather not know. He supposed he could not begrudge the man his vengeance. After all, what wouldn't one do to avenge one's son?

"Then what is it you would have of me, if not justice?" Bolton tented his fingers, peering at Ned with an inscrutable stare.

"Marriage."

* * *

 **Catelyn**

Arya was put under the care and confines of Septa Mordane and her sister for the whole day. She was to be kept in the sewing room, far away from Roose Bolton and her brothers until the lord concluded his stay, else she face the grim retribution of her lady mother. Other than her daughter's transgression, Cat was quite pleased with her family's presentation. Robb was respectful and chivalrous, Sansa compassionate and sweet, and young Bran held himself remarkably well in the chilling presence of the Leech Lord of the Dreadfort. Even Theon Greyjoy managed to keep his witticisms and remarks to himself. Catelyn preferred not to think of the bastard, Jon Snow.

Ned found her shortly before noon in the sewing room with her daughters and the grim-faced septa. She pricked her finger on the needle when the door burst open, an uncommonly disconcerted Eddard Stark standing there and motioning for her urgently.

"Septa Mordane, if you would watch over my daughters, I will return shortly." She followed Ned out into the hall where he addressed a servant brusquely.

"Find Maester Luwin and tell him to meet us in my solar." Catelyn trailed after him, nearly jogging to keep up with his long stride.

"Ned, what is it? What has happened?" She went to him the instant the door shut behind them, grasping his sleeve. Ned only shook his head.

"We will discuss it with Maester Luwin present."

Said maester arrived shortly thereafter, red-faced and breathing heavily.

"My lord, I hear you have need of me?"

"Yes, I do. Please, both of you, sit down. I require your council." Ned sat at the wide table in the center of the room. Upon it lay a detailed map of the north lands.

"Tell us, my lord, what troubles you?" Luwin pressed and Catelyn nodded, looking at her husband concernedly.

"According to Lord Bolton, his son's death was no accident. He suspects him to have been poisoned by a man with significant animosity against his house." Catelyn bristled at that. It was terrifying to think that one man with a grudge and a bit of poison could be the downfall of an entire line.

"Has he been executed? Surely he would be put to the sword for such a crime!" Ned nodded.

"The murderer has been brought to justice, but that is not the crux of the matter," Catelyn and Luwin exchanged a glance, "Lord Bolton has a daughter."

"A daughter? I thought Domeric was his only progeny?" Luwin said.

"How do we know this is true? We have heard nothing of another true-born Bolton child." Catelyn declared fiercely, with good reason, she thought.

"I asked the same thing. Lord Bolton says his wife died birthing the child. She has been fostered with her aunt, Lady Dustin, for most of her life. It is my understanding that they are somewhat… estranged."

"I see," Luwin nodded, "And what does this mean for us?" Ned took a long and Catelyn prepared herself for the worst.

"For the sake of the continuation of his house Lord Bolton proposed to ally our houses through marriage," At this, both Catelyn and Maester Luwin were struck speechless, "The girl has not yet reached her majority, but once she does Lord Bolton wants her settled. He is desperate for an heir."

"A marriage…" Catelyn had to take it all in, "Why us? Why not one of the other noble houses?" Ned opened his mouth to answer but Luwin was faster.

"None of the other houses trust the Boltons. If House Stark were to ally with House Bolton, it would be seen as a gesture of good faith."

"Indeed. I'm certain he would see anything less as an insult."

"Well, he will not have our Robb, if that's who he wants." Catelyn said firmly.

"No, certainly not. Robb must marry a lady of higher standing."

"Indeed," The old maester rose from his seat and went to the window. Below, the male children practiced their swordplay with Ser Rodrick. Young Robb struck downward, his blade clashing with that of Theon Greyjoy, who danced back, taunting the future Lord of Winterfell. Robb went after him - a mistake; Theon pivoted and, with a triumphant whoop, knocked the blade from his hand. Luwin hummed in contemplation.

"Have you thought of something, Maester?" Catelyn inquired.

"What of young Greyjoy?" Both Lord and Lady Stark looked at the old maester with wide eyes.

"Theon?" Ned repeated.

"Yes," He turned back towards them, "He is of a great house, like Robb. He has advantage, if mostly symbolic. And would it not be fitting to keep him tied to the North with a Northern bride? Two birds with one stone, as it were."

"Yes, yes!" Catelyn concurred eagerly, "An ideal solution!" Truthfully, if it would get Theon out of their household, she would agree to just about anything.

"Assuming Roose agrees to it," Ned stipulated, "Not to mention we must contend with Balon and his people."

"Bolton is in no position to be choosy. Why shouldn't he agree to it?" Catelyn smiled, rather pleased with things, "And as for Balon, allow Theon to return to the Iron Islands after the marriage, along with a sizeable dowry and perhaps an heir on the way. If he refuses, we keep him indefinitely."

"Such a thing might work," Luwin opined, "If Balon will be willing to swallow his pride long enough to agree to it."

"He would be a fool not to," said Ned, "I will discuss it with Roose."


	2. II

**-Two-**

 **Theon**

"Showoff." Theon grinned at an indignant Robb Stark before letting another arrow fly. It stuck dead center in the target ten yards away.

"Come, come, now, Robb. I cannot help that I am better." The young lord and his bastard brother shared a look of exasperation.

"Your arrogance will be the death of you one day, Greyjoy." Jon Snow proclaimed. Theon turned to issue a biting retort when a rather pretty servant girl flitted into the training ground and curtsied before them.

"My Lord Greyjoy, Lord Stark requires you presence." Theon exhaled irritably, but spared one last smarmy glance at Jon Snow and a friendly pat on the rear for the servant girl before turning and marching into the keep.

It was not often that Lord Stark requested an audience with Theon alone, unless of course it was to chastise him for his dalliances in the town or with one of the maids. By now Lord Stark had to realize that such empty threats did not work on him anymore; he suspected the only purpose they served these days was in pacifying Lady Catelyn. She held a particular distaste for him, ever since he made the unfortunate mistake of describing one of his latest conquests to Robb. He rolled his eyes at the memory – Robb had asked, after all.

In any case, it came as quite a surprise, then, when he reached Lord Stark's solar and found not an irate Lady Catelyn, but the Leech Lord watching him with an unimpressed expression. Theon faltered, glancing between the two northern lords. _What is this?_

"So you are Theon Greyjoy." The Leech Lord sneered, looking him up and down as though he were a prized horse ready for barter. Theon's hackles rose, along with the hairs at the nape of his neck, and he decided in that moment that he deeply disliked Roose Bolton.

"I am, my lord," he said, making a conscious effort not to let his voice waver, and then acknowledged Lord Stark, "Did you have need of me?"

"Yes, Theon. Please, come in," Stark glanced at Roose Bolton and back at Theon, who was feeling more confused by the second, "There is something we must discuss."

"Of course, Lord Stark."

"Theon, you are a man grown, which means there are certain duties you must assume for yourself and your house," Stark paused a moment, as though uncomfortable with what he had to say next, "Chief among them is the obligation to marry."

Theon felt his eyes widen and the pit of his stomach drop into his bowels. _A betrothal._ Stark meant to marry him off! Swiftly, his shock turned to an intense feeling of betrayal that pierced him from navel to neck.

"To _whom_?" he demanded. What noble family in their right mind would have the son of reaver and a pillager, a disgraced rebel who'd practically been neutered by the very family before him? It was insane! _Unless…_ unless Stark meant to marry him to one of his own daughters. Theon rid himself of that notion immediately. Catelyn would never allow it.

"To my daughter, Lady Pryskilla Bolton." The Leech Lord's voice washed over him like a cold draught and Theon was rendered still as a statue. _They want me to marry a Bolton?_ Was this a jape? No doubt the wench would be as unsightly and unsettling as her father, most likely with the personality of a rabid dog. _She will probably try and bite my cock off the first night!_

"My lord, I'm afraid I don't understand." Ned Stark looked at him with something akin to pity, only confirming Theon's suspicions.

"Lady Pryskilla is Lord Bolton's last surviving child, and you are the heir to Pyke. It would be ideal."

"My father will never agree to this!" Theon's mouth worked faster than his mind and the desperate protest came pouring out in full force.

"He might. Nothing is set in stone, you have to understand. It is only a proposal," Lord Stark said as though it were in any way reasonable, "The Dreadfort would have an heir, as will the Iron Islands, along with a sizeable dowry to go with it. And," he glanced at Bolton, "Once you sire said heir, you will be allowed to go home."

That silenced the protest on his tongue.

"Back to the Iron Islands?" He murmured.

"Yes, if that is your desire." The two lords looked at him steadily, gauging his reaction. _Home. I could go home._ He thought. Theon would be remiss to say that such a thing was not one of his most fervent wishes. He longed to be among his own people. Where no one would look at him with suspicion and distrust in their eyes. Where he could become his own man, away from the yoke of House Stark, even if it meant a marriage to the Leech Lord's daughter. _But there must be a catch,_ he thought. _There always is._

"And if my father doesn't agree?" Stark glanced downward, almost apologetically.

"Then you would have to remain here."

"So you mean to blackmail him?" Theon accused, angry again.

"If that is what it takes, then so be it." Lord Bolton said coldly, "We have already dispatched a raven."

* * *

 **Jon**

Their swordplay was interrupted when a furious Theon picked up a sword of live steel and began hacking away at a practice dummy. His dark eyes were narrowed and full of rage, his swings erratic but full of a brutality which Jon had never thought him capable. Robb halted in his movements to watch the half-crazed Ironborn.

"What in the seven hells has gotten into you, lad?" Rodrick Cassel roared, halfway between astounded and amused. Theon didn't answer him, only redoubled his efforts and severed the dummy's head with a single swing. He stood there panting and sweaty, despite the cold air, and none of the murder seemed to had dissipated from his gaze.

"Ser Rodrick, may we conclude our training for the day?" Robb inquired, ever respectful. Winterfell's man-at-arms huffed and rolled his eyes, but appeared to agree.

"Fine, but expect me to push you twice as hard on the morrow."

"I will." Robb answered for them both, and waited for Ser Rodrick to leave before turning to Theon. Robb had always been closer to him than Jon ever would, or wanted to be, and he approached carefully, keeping out of range of his sword.

"Theon? What happened? What did father want?" Theon only sneered and sheathed his sword.

"He intends to marry me off, to a _Bolton_." Robb's eyes rounded, while Jon fought off the urge to laugh. He would never let Greyjoy live this one down.

"You're betrothed?"

"As good as, _Lord Stark,"_ He said nastily, "To some dead-eyed, Bolton tart!" _Better than one of my sisters,_ Jon thought.

"But… how can that be? Lord Bolton only had one son."

"Evidently he has a daughter as well, and I am to be her _lucky_ groom." Theon gestured dramatically, prompting Jon to roll his eyes.

"Surely it cannot be all bad. You could always take a lover…"

"That's not the point, Robb," Theon scoffed and shook his head derisively, "He's going to blackmail my father. If he doesn't agree to the match, then I stay here forever." The young lord of Winterfell pulled his head back in shock, while his bastard brother disguised a roll of his eyes. _What did you expect, Greyjoy?_ _Your father is one of the most unreasonable men in the seven kingdoms, of course Lord Stark has to be tough._

* * *

 **Asha**

It was an exceptionally soggy day in Pyke when Lord Stark's letter arrived. Asha Greyjoy looked flatly at the snarling direwolf imprinted in the wax, something derisive and wrathful in her gaze. The last time they had heard from the Starks was when they stormed the keep, killed two of her brothers, and dragged the third, crying and screaming, into one of the king's ships to be raised a hostage. The jealous, secret part of Asha thought it might have been for the best; Theon was always the weakest of Balon's children, a constant tag-a-long, even when their brothers tormented him – and, more importantly, it meant that Asha was now next in line to take over lordship of the Iron Islands. But that did by no means indicate that she was at ease with the situation. Forget the humiliation, the blight upon their pride - Theon, weak though he might've been, was still a Greyjoy. He belonged to the sea like a bird to the sky, and trying to keep him from it was tantamount to blasphemy _. Fucking greenlanders._

"You best take that to your father now, girl." The old maester barked gruffly and Asha realized how long she'd been standing there, glaring at a piece of paper. She jerked her head and stalked off.

Balon Greyjoy sat recalcitrant and brooding in his throne, glaring with fierce eyes at nothing in particular. He seemed shrunken, somehow, with age or with the pressure of lording over a stony, infertile, land mass full to the brim with hardened sailors spoiling for a fight. It was anyone's guess, really.

"Father, I have a letter from the Starks."

"Is that so?" He said with little enthusiasm and much disdain, "Give it here." Asha presented the yet-unopened missive which was promptly snatched from her hand and torn open. His eyes flew over Lord Stark's neat script, initially dismissive but Asha saw, quite clearly, his expression grow dark and murderous like a storm on the horizon. Asha knew that look well. He had worn it only once, after Rodrik and Maron were slain, and it was something one never forgot. Asha's mind leaped from one dire conclusion to the next. Was Theon dead? Had he escaped? Did he whelp a bastard on one of the Stark daughters?

"What does he say, father?" When Balon said nothing Asha boldly approached, "What has happened?" Her father's voice was a guttural snarl.

"It would seem that the honorable Lord Stark is not so honorable after all. He means to force my hand. In exchange for Theon's return, the bastard would have him married to a Northern girl. If I refuse, Theon remains a hostage."

Asha was thunderstruck.

" _What?"_ The Starks were threatening to keep her brother a prisoner forever? What gall! What _fucking_ nerve! "He has no right! We must put a stop to this! Theon belongs to _us!"_

"No." Asha stilled at her father's reply. There was an icy coldness in his voice that sent a chill down her spine.

"Father?"

"I will not compromise with a Stark. Let them marry him off. Theon belongs to them now."

"But he is your son! My brother-"

"He is no son of mine!" Balon rose abruptly. In his anger, he was anything but shrunken. He was the Lord of the Iron Islands, restored to full potency and Asha was forced to back down, reluctant though she was.

"Theon is dead to us now. Best you forget him." Asha stared in open mouth shock.

"But-

"We will speak on this no more. Now leave me be." She narrowed her eyes, feeling numb and the weight of words unspoken hanging heavily over her tongue. On wooden legs she turned and exited the room.


	3. III

**-Three-**

 **Eddard**

Weeks later, after Lord Bolton had returned to the Dreadfort, a raven arrived from Pyke, and Ned was utterly appalled by the contents of the letter it bore.

 _Lord Stark,_

 _If you think I would capitulate to you to see the return of my son and some Northern whore, you are sorely mistaken. By all means, marry the whelp, keep him with you forever, I care not. The integrity of House Greyjoy is worth more than one son, especially one who is likely a Stark creature by this time. I would rather my house fall than see any puppet of yours sit the Seastone Chair._

 _Balon Greyjoy, Lord of Pyke and the Iron Islands_

"What a bloody fool," said Cat when he showed it to her. She shook her head in disbelief, her fingers clenched around the parchment, "What father would do that to his son?"

"This one, evidently."

"Poor Theon…" she murmured, almost inaudibly. Ned had to concur, "What will you do now?"

"I've already sent a raven with a copy of this letter to Roose. He may still want to pursue to matter," he took a long breath, "I have not the faintest idea what to tell Theon."

"Will you show him this letter?"

"No. I would not do that to him." Catelyn nodded.

"Good, as much as I dislike the lad, no child should hear that from their father. Damn that man."

A week later, correspondence came from the Dreadfort.

 _Lord Stark_

 _Though exasperating and disappointing, I would stress that Balon Greyjoy has neither officially disinherited his son nor rejected the match. That being said, I propose that we go through with the marriage. Balon will expire eventually, and a wife and children may be enough to give his son the legitimacy required to succeed him, even if said wife is Northern. I patiently await your decision._

 _Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort_

Ned scoffed at the word 'patiently.' Roose smelled advantage and he wanted the matter settled posthaste. There was nothing 'patient' about it.

"He does raise a fair point." Luwin opined.

"He does," Ned agreed, "But I will not force Theon to marry against his will. Moreover, I am hesitant to give Bolton that much power."

"Power perhaps as an advisor, which he would only obtain _if_ Theon were to win a Kingsmoot and _if_ Lord Bolton were alive to see it. It is an incredible gamble, but the one certainty is that Balon _will_ die eventually. In which case, it would be to all of our advantages to have someone with Northern sympathies press their claim to the Seastone chair, rather than another fanatic."

"Aye, better a known evil than an unknown one."

"Indeed, my lord." Ned sucked in a deep breath, hating what he had to do now.

"Will you fetch Theon? It is time to tell him the news."

* * *

 **Theon**

In spite of his initial reluctance, Theon could not deny the hopeful excitement that had been simmering somewhere deep in him, where his innocence used to reside, since Lord Stark had told him his plan those weeks ago. Granted, he was far from ecstatic about the _caveats,_ but he would be _home at last._ Where he truly belonged. Surely that would be worth any annoyance a Bolton wife might bring.

Therefore, when Maester Luwin found him in the yard, sparring with Robb, he dropped everything and nearly sprinted over to where the old man stood, leaving his best friend to swing at empty air.

"Hey!" Robb shouted, but Theon paid him no mind.

"Has it come? Has my father sent a message?" He demanded. The maester just sighed, his eyes looking everywhere but at Theon. Just that was enough to send a knife of dread piercing through his gut, "What is it?"

"You'd best come with me."

And so, with a leaden step and a no other option, he followed. Up through the winding hallways and steep, grey stairwells that he had come to know so well over the years. Better than he knew Pyke. But that would change. It had to. He was certain of it, but even so, when Maester Luwin knocked on the door to Ned Stark's solar, Theon almost did not want to go in, safe in the bliss of ignorance. _I am a man grown,_ he told himself, _I can face my fate._

"Lord Stark?" He said. The man looked up at him with something grim and inscrutable in his expression, "Has my father responded?"

"He did, but, Theon-

"Did he accept? Can I go home?"

"Theon," he took a long, sullen breath, "I am most aggrieved to have to tell you this, but Lord Greyjoy did not accept my offer."

It was like the world had fallen out from beneath his feet.

"What?" He uttered.

"He didn't accept."

"You mean, I am to be stuck here forever? No. _No!_ You're lying! He wouldn't do that! My father wouldn't do that!" He roared with all the strength and vehemence possessed by a seventeen-year-old boy. Even so, Stark flinched back slightly at the force of it.

"I would not lie to you. I am sorry, Theon."

"I want to see it," he demanded not waiting for Stark to ask what he meant, "The letter! I want to see it! Show me!"

"I do not think that would be advisable-

"Show me the fucking letter! You owe me that much!" With a strangled breath, Lord Stark relinquished the piece of parchment, which Theon snatched away with hasty fingers.

His eyes flew over the words scratched upon it in Balon Greyjoy's jagged hand. Once. Twice. A third time. But only a few sentences registered, those that seemed to glare at him, violent and accusing, as though they had been written in blood, flogging him over and over. _Marry the whelp. Worth more than one son. A puppet of yours. I care not. I care not._

I. CARE. NOT.

Balon Greyjoy… didn't care? _No…_ that couldn't be right! His father loved him! He was his only son - the heir to Pyke and the Iron Islands! His father wouldn't just _give up_ on him like that! Theon refused to believe it.

"No…" he repeated aloud, "No, this can't be right! It's a forgery! A farce! Tell me that this is not true!"

"I am afraid it is, Theon. I would not toy with you like this."

 _No, he wouldn't,_ a small voice told him, but Theon would not listen to that voice. He could not.

"This is your fault!" He declared instead, "If you hadn't tried to push through that damned betrothal, none of this would have happened!"

"Forgive me, Theon. I was only doing what I thought best."

"Best for you, perhaps," he snarled. In all his years, Theon never imagined himself standing up to Lord Stark in such a manner. But after so much time, all of the rage, the discontent, and the offense came surging to the light and he was helpless against it, "Because of you, I may as well have no home! Perhaps I should name myself Snow and go to the Wall!"

"Enough, Theon!" The chair clattered to the floor when Lord Stark stood and brought both of his palms slamming down on his desk. At once, all of the gusto flew from Theon's chest. It was a rare occasion when Eddard Stark lost his temper, but when he did, no one dared stand against him, "I am deeply sorry for your father's response; however, I will not tolerate this behavior. When you are no longer out of sorts, we will talk further. Until then, remove yourself from my sight."

Chest heaving with unspent rage, Theon turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, slamming the door in his wake.

* * *

The only place he could think to go was _out._ Away from Lord Stark and his pitying looks, from Lady Catelyn and her disdain, from Robb's concern, and Jon's quiet derision. Away from the guards who laughed behind his back, and the servants who seemed to walk on eggshells whenever he was near.

As the cold stung his cheeks and bit through his cloak when he left the keep, Theon hated them.

Was this all he was destined for? A half-life, in a half-home, where half the people showed him any measure of kindness? In a rare moment of clarity, Theon found he could empathize with Jon Snow, whose bastardy made him as much of a pariah as Theon. _But at least he was of the North._ The Northmen may not have welcomed Jon Snow into the fold as they had Robb, but they were still his people. Theon could boast none of that. He was nothing more than a relic of a conquered, much hated kingdom.

And yet, in spite of all of this, he had managed to coexist, buoyed by thoughts of his glorious, long-awaited return to the lands of his birth, and having the pride of his family as Robb did his.

All of that had been dashed in an instant by a few words hastily scratched into a parchment as if the writer hadn't cared enough to make them legible.

It was bad enough to be little more than a war prize – a commodity ready for barter, without thought and feeling, able to be tossed away when his usefulness was outlived. But to know that his _own father,_ whom he'd looked up to and sought desperately to please, regarded him much the same way? It was more than he could bear, and so it was that, for the first time in his life, Theon Greyjoy found himself on his knees before the weeping wierwood heart tree, struggling to hold himself together.

He had never been particularly religious - in fact the closest he came to an encounter with the Old Gods involved a pretty serving wench and more than a little Dornish Red - but today proved to be an exception. Down on his knees, neck bent akimbo, and hands clasped together, Theon prayed in earnest. Begging, beseeching, _imploring_ every god in existence to make the events of the past weeks be not so. Perhaps they were part of a deranged nightmare, or maybe the imaginings of an addled mind. Either would have been preferable to the truth.

Theon remained like that until his arms trembled and his back ached and the cold had chilled him to the bone. He guessed that his lips had probably turned blue by now, numb to his desperate mutterings. The rest of his extremities had since lost feeling. Therefore it came as a great shock when the cold suddenly abated. Someone had draped a cloak over him.

"You will catch your death out here if you remain like that." Luwin observed in that serene maester's tone of his.

"What do you care?" Theon sneered, but pulled the cloak around him nonetheless.

"Contrary to what you may think, you are as much a part of this household as any of us," the old maester exhaled as he slowly took a seat beside him, "And there are many here who care for you."

"Is that so?" he spat venomously, "Is that why Lord Stark alienated my father from me? Made a prisoner out of me?"

"That is never what was intended. We sought to put you on the Seastone chair when the time came. We would have seen you become Lord of the Iron Islands, as you were meant to." Theon's gaze snapped over to meet that of Maester Luwin, utterly disbelieving.

"Don't lie to me!"

"I swear, I am not."

A little breath escaped him. Stark _wanted_ him to return? It did not add up.

"That is awfully devious for men of the Stark persuasion."

"It was Lord Bolton's idea, actually."

"Of course it was," he scoffed, "His daughter would be Lady of Iron Islands and I would be a puppet, as my father said."

"Theon, you and Robb are friends are you not?"

"Aye."

"There is quite a difference between being friends and being a puppet. Lord Stark's only ambition is peace."

"Well, that'll never happen now, will it?" he hissed nastily.

"You don't know that, Theon. You are not disinherited. In fact, your claim to the Islands is still one of the strongest there is, and it can only be made stronger. Remember, it is not your father, but your people who choose their leader."

"Just whose side are you on, maester?" Luwin took a long breath, no doubt slightly irritated by now.

"Your interests and that of the Starks are aligned, therefore I serve you both," he placed a hand on Theon's shoulder, "You can win back your father's favor."

"How?" The maester smiled at the tentative hope taking root amongst the biting cynicism.

"What strengthens any claim?"

"Heirs," Theon breathed, recalling his lessons about succession. A line always had to be secure to go uncontested.

"And for that, you need a wife."

"The Bolton girl," his tone turned accusing again, "You want me to marry her still?"

"You will pardon my saying so, but no one else is currently offering, and heirs take time." Theon let the sting pass him by. He knew the Boltons had put forth the first offer for his suit, but also that they were an ambitious, cruel sort. Roose would never offer anything unless he obtained something in return.

"What is the Leech Lord getting out of this?"

"You're thinking like a lord," Luwin complimented, "Good. But I believe the answer is a simple one. Lord Bolton seeks advancement, connection to someone outside of the North, and more equal footing to the Starks. Not to mention his daughter's voice in your ear."

"And you would give it to him?"

"The real question is – would you?" Theon looked down at his hands, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed in stubborn contemplation.

"I won't be a puppet. Lord Bolton's or Lord Stark's."

"Nor should you. But have you given any thought to what happens after Lord Bolton dies? He has no heirs, unless he marries and begets more, or his daughter does. Until then, who rules the Dreadfort?"

"I would," Theon murmured, scarcely believing it, even after he put the piece together.

"De facto, of course, until your son came of age, but a ruler nonetheless. One potentially worthy of great respect."

The words struck a chord in him. _Commanding the Dreadfort could cement my claim,_ he thought. And better yet, show his father he was a worthy son. Not just a Stark creature, but his own. _And,_ he supposed, if Bolton's daughter was ugly, he could take a legion of Salt Wives back on Pyke and sire a whole army of sons.

"Tell Lord Stark that I accept. I'll marry the Bolton girl."

* * *

 **Pryskilla**

The wide, windswept plains of the Barrowlands had a certain wild beauty about them, an untamed charm that was at once merry and merciless, and yet all of it failed to reach Pryskilla Bolton this day. She gazed out her window with sad eyes, puffy and crimson from tears, which left bright pink splotches on her cheeks. She had always been an ugly crier and strove not to do so if she could help it, but a fanfare from her was about the only commemoration the Boltons would give for a fallen family member.

 _No. Not fallen._ _Murdered,_ Pryskilla thought fiercely. Momentarily, her tears were stayed by an immense wave of hatred as it rolled through her, coming and going like a dark tide.

Domeric's death was no accident. He was healthy all his life and one little bought of gastric fever – if that was what they called it – would not have been enough to fell the young heir to the Dreadfort. But that was assuming it was, in reality, a sickness, and not poison as Pryskilla, her aunt, and no doubt her father, believed. _Her father…_ Now there was an entirely different tragedy all together. Eight years she had not seen him. Eight years of fostering away from her ancestral home. Then, when it seemed at last the young scions of House Bolton were to make their grand return, one dies and the other is sent back to Barrowton before the funeral for the former can even take place! Thinking of it made her positively _randy_ with bitter humor.

Theirs was a family long torn asunder - just like the missing skin of the man adorning their banners - and rife with intrigue, distrust, and, _apparently_ , familial oversight. The Bastard of Bolton was evidence enough of _that_. If only their father had told them the truth of their half-brother, perhaps then Domeric would still be alive, and Pryskilla wouldn't be confined to her aunt's halls for an interminable length of time.

For now, she was not to draw attention to herself, nor was she to leave Barrowton without a close guard of trusted men. All her meals were subject first to a taster, and every bit of correspondence was checked and rechecked for threats against her person, so as to deprive the bastard of any opportunity to eliminate her as well, if that was his prerogative. Pryskilla often wondered during these days if this was how the queen felt, living in constant fear of an attack. It was quite dull, for surely the bastard couldn't get to her here, so far afield, but alas, here she was.

"Pryskilla?" Lady Barbrey Dustin entered the room, smiling when she saw the object of her query, "Your father has sent a letter."

The young Bolton maid leapt to her feet. _News at last._

"Thank you, Aunt Barbrey." She said sincerely. The older woman touched her cheek, gazing at the through equally tear-ravaged, though affectionate eyes. While Lady Dustin had been incredibly fond of both Bolton children, she and Pryskilla had forged a close camaraderie, as only a motherless child and a husbandless wife can.

"I shall leave you to it, dear girl. If you should have need of me, I will be in my solar." With one last sad smile, her aunt was gone and Pryskilla was left to her own devices. The seal on her father's letter was yet unbroken and she gazed at the head of the flayed man, screaming up at her. _If only it were the bastard's head,_ she thought.

With deft, elegant fingers, Pryskilla pried apart the edges of the letter to reveal Roose Bolton's neat, compact script. Her eyebrows rose almost to her hairline when she observed the sheer length of the missive. Usually, he confined his correspondence to less than half a page, but this particular letter was _three times_ that.

Then she read his words, and her eyes, already round, widened to the size of dinner plates. It took two rounds of reading before she even comprehended the sentences surrounding that one single, damning word.

 _Betrothed._

She knew that her father had gone to negotiate a Stark match - Lord Bolton had discussed it with her at length, in fact. Domeric's death put both her and their house in a precarious position. With no male heirs Lord Bolton may be forced to either marry again or legitimize his kinslaying son, and any sensible person could see that was no reasonable option. Even if her father did remarry, neither his lady wife nor new born child could remain untouched with a wild dog on the loose. If the bastard was bold enough to kill Domeric, there was nothing he wouldn't do, no one he wouldn't come after in his attempt to force her father's hand. The Dreadfort, it seemed, was no longer a safe haven for the members of House Bolton.

Therefore, Pryskilla was the only one who could salvage what little remained of their line, and the only protection lay within an advantageous marriage. No harm could come to her if she bore the heirs of another noble house far away from here. Moreover, it would give them the time to wipe the Bastard of Bolton from the face of the earth, especially if her intended belonged to family of great standing.

Imagine her shock when she saw exactly _which_ family that was to be.

 _Theon Greyjoy._

* * *

 **Roose**

With his customary chilliness, the Lord of the Dreadfort surveyed the ragtag party as they approached, taking stock of the men of whom it was comprised. There were five of them, all cruel, depraved, and amoral, even more so than Roose himself.

The bastard, and his boys.

Lord Stark would be furious if he ever found out Roose had lied, but what Lord Stark didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Domeric would be avenged, even if it took years, and Pryskilla would be tucked away, quietly producing the future Lord of the Dreadfort with her Ironborn husband. Roose had been utterly surprised when Lord Stark's letter came, informing him that the boy had consented to the match. He would have been a fool not to, but even from a single meeting, Roose sensed that Theon Greyjoy was intensely stubborn, intensely prideful, and intensely prone to folly.

"Father." Roose felt a stab of disgust deep in his bowels at Ramsay's use of the title, but did not correct him. It was imperative that the bastard suspect nothing - that he think he had won. It would make it all the more simple to snatch everything he held dear away from him, just as he had done to Roose, and if all else failed, Ramsay could still be legitimized. But, even so, Roose still thought of his good flaying knife back in the dungeons, sharp as any Valyrian steel blade and just as keen. He would have liked to peel off Ramsay Snow's hideous grin with it. Slowly. So he could relish in the screaming, the pleading. That was always the best part.

"Ramsay," He replied tonelessly and wheeled his stallion around without bothering to greet the others in the bastard's party. He knew them already. They were his men, after all, and they understood their place. Ramsay, on the other hand, was a different story.

"I was saddened to hear of my half-brother's passing. Such a terrible tragedy." Riding boldly beside the Lord of the Dreadfort, he at least possessed the forethought to appear sympathetic. Roose hardly acknowledged him.

"Indeed."

As the Dreadfort rose on the horizon, Roose's bad humors only grew. The boy was not worthy of _setting foot_ the halls of House Bolton's ancestral keep, and to allow him to do so was tantamount to rape. But better the vicious cur remain appeased at the Dreadfort than vengeful and on the run; Roose knew him well enough to understand that he would always be led by ambition and whimsy first and common sense second. Ramsay was dangerous, but he did not possess much in the way of forethought. That was why he murdered one of his highborn kin and forgot about the other. That was why, in the end, in spite of all offenses and indignities, Roose Bolton would win the day. In his mind's eye, he visualized his daughter returning to him a married woman, with a trueborn Bolton heir on the way, and he smiled to himself, sly and cruel.

 _The game is afoot, Ramsay Snow._

* * *

 **(Just so you all are aware, this is the end of the reuploaded/edited content. The rest should hopefully follow pretty closely with this updated version, however I will go through the rest of it when I return from army training, probably sometime in march. Hope you all enjoy!)**


	4. IV

**-Four-**

 **Jon**

Winterfell was a changed place after news broke among the family of the Bolton betrothal, or at least one would think so if they spent enough time around Theon Greyjoy. Even a year and a few months after the fact and one would think it happened yesterday, as morose and sullen he was about the whole affair. By now, only Robb, by some divine grace, was able to stomach his presence for any length of time, but even his patience was beginning to thin the closer they came to the date. Theon just… wasn't the same anymore. He had become hateful and bitter, and he never spoke more than a few venomous words to Lord Stark if he could help it. He'd thrown himself into his training, but with none of the joy he'd shown before. Granted, his skill with blade and bow had become nearly unmatched in Winterfell, but it was hard to win against anybody who slung insults and jabs as vicious as Theon did. Something had happened besides the betrothal, Jon was certain of it. Marriage to a wealthy noble lady was nothing to scoff at, and even if she was hideous there was nothing stopping Theon from whoring to his heart's content. Just that was far from enough to explain his behavior, and Jon thought that if the Bolton girl was as repugnant as her father, they would make an impeccable match.

"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die."

 _Ice,_ the Valyrian steel greatsword of House Stark, swung downward with that eerie whistle unique to the fabled metal and severed the deserter's greasy head cleanly from his shoulders. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Bran tense, but otherwise the boy remained steadfast. _Good lad._

Jon recalled the first time he witnessed an execution. He had been Bran's age, perhaps a little younger, and the death had not been nearly so dignified. The scrawny rat of a man had raped and murdered the wife of his brother and when faced with the sword, he broke down into a blubbering, half-crazed mass. Two Stark guards had been forced to hold him to the block while Ned Stark took his head. Jon still vividly recalled the image of frozen horror on the man's severed head as it bounced away from his twitching body, the chilling screams suddenly stopped short. Were it not for Jory Cassel's steady hand on his shoulder, reminding him who he was and whom he represented, Jon would have surely been sick all over ground. Robb, too.

It was not a moment easily forgotten, and neither was the lesson with which Jon had been imparted. After that day, he learned not to fear death. Far better to leave this world with calm and dignity rather than as a sobbing wreck not even a mother could love. _No…_ If death ever came for Jon Snow, he would welcome it with open arms.

Greyjoy's spiteful bark of laughter cut through the solemnity in the air, as easily as Ned Stark's blade cut through the deserter's neck. He kicked the bloodied head away and Jon muttered an insult under his breath, unimpressed by Greyjoy's inappropriate humor. _At least it shut him up about the other matter._ He looked then to his younger half-sibling.

"You did well, Bran." The boy glanced his way, eyes wide with horror, but also understanding.

"He died well, with courage." Robb said, after a time. Jon looked at him plainly.

"No, not courage. How can one have courage in death if he had none in life?" The young Stark heir rolled his eyes.

"You should be a maester, Jon, with all your philosophical ramblings. Come, I'll race you to the bridge."

"Done." Jon chased after his half-brother, the business with the deserter momentarily forgotten as the two charged into the trees.

* * *

 **Eddard**

His wife found him that evening, polishing _Ice_ beneath the great Weirwood tree in the Winterfell Godswood. Ned was deeply absorbed, pondering no particular thing. An effort to cleanse himself of the ugliness this afternoon. He took no pleasure in executions, like any reasonable man, but Ned Stark found that every year it became a little harder to do the deed. Lowering that sword over a man's neck was one of the most difficult tasks imaginable, which is why he supposed that it had fallen out of fashion in the South. It was brutal, thirsty work, and took only the strongest of stomachs, but justice must always be served; she was an insatiable mistress.

Ned thought then on his children, his sons in particular. What must it be like to be so innocent? He had quite forgotten the feeling! Whether it be one of smiling effervescence, or perhaps an apathetic numbness that blunted the sharp edges of the world, he was no longer sure. He thought his children fortunate that they had yet to see the world's cruelty. They would soon enough, and Ned prayed that witnessing the dispensation of justice would help hone the edges of their psyche.

The girls, on the other hand, had to learn an entirely different lesson, one which Ned would be of little help in teaching. In their case, he hoped that the upcoming Greyjoy/Bolton wedding might put them off their songs and tales. Even little Arya, wild and contrarian as she was, was not free of girlish ideals. Happy marriages like that between Lord and Lady Stark were few and far between. The best anyone – especially nobles - could hope for were tolerable unions, born of convenience and familial obligation. Love was, oftentimes, completely out of the question, and Ned Stark had every reason to believe that the Bolton wedding would be no different.

He was brought forth from his thoughts by Catelyn, as she took a seat beside him and laid her hand softly over his.

"There was grievous news today, my lord. I'm afraid Jon Arryn is dead."

The breath rushed out of him, quicker than if he'd been hit in the chest by Robert Baratheon's Warhammer.

"Jon…" he lowered his head in grief, "Is this news certain?" Catelyn nodded.

"It bears the king's seal and is written in his own hand. I saved it for you. He says there was nothing to be done except ease his passing."

"A small mercy," Ned concurred, "What of your sister and her boy?"

"Lysa has returned to the Eyrie. She says they are well, but I wish she would have gone to my family in Riverrun."

"You could go to her. You and the children. I am sure she would be glad of your company."

"I am certain she would, but there is other news," Ned turned up his brow in curiosity when Catelyn's tone darkened, "The king is coming to Winterfell."

Ned felt his grief lessen and elation take its place. Robert Baratheon was his brother in everything but name, and were it not for Lyanna's tragic fate, not even that would have divided them any longer.

But then he remembered Roose Bolton.

"God's help us, he could not have picked a worse time!" Ned exclaimed, "The wedding will have to be delayed." Catelyn shrugged, attempting to make light of the situation.

"Theon will be pleased."

"Aye, but Roose will not."

"Perhaps he won't, but what can we do? Refuse the king? Turn him back to King's Landing?"

"Would that I could," He shook his head, "How are we to muster the supplies to host the King and his royal retinue as well as the other lords?"

"Lord Bolton will give his aid. It is his daughter after all," she said calmly, "Moreover, I suspect he will want to keep the affair a quiet one, knowing him." Ned considered her words, finding them logical and satisfactory.

"You have the right of it, my lady," he squeezed her hand affectionately, "What say you, then, of the Ironborn? I can attempt to contact Balon again" At this, his lady wife scoffed.

"They will not come. The Lord Reaper, or whatever it is he calls himself, is far too proud. He will leave your letters unanswered, as always." Ned shook his head. It was true, he had sent numerous ravens informing Balon Greyjoy of the developments and was met only with a deafening, damning silence. He didn't have the heart to inform Theon about any of it – the boy hated him enough already.

"I cannot believe a father would refuse to attend his son's wedding."

"If it affects you so, then send another. If he refuses then that is his prerogative, but let it never be said that Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell did not try," a wry grin touched her lips delicately, "Besides, we shall be entertaining practically the whole of the Southern court! What are a few Ironborn compared to that?" Ned chuckled.

"That would _ensure_ they do not attend. But I will write, as a gesture of goodwill." His wife smiled her pretty Tully smile that still, after many years of marriage, managed to turn his insides warm with desire.

"And then when you are done, my lord, you must come to bed. I think I should like to give Rickon a little brother."

Ned happily obliged.

* * *

 **R** **oose**

Barrow Hall, the ancestral seat of House Dustin, was enough to give Roose Bolton a stout case of the bad humors. It was far too open for his liking, too airy, and too… _pedestrian._ He did not know how his children tolerated it for all those years. Barrow Hall was no true fortress, not compared to the Dreadfort. After all, what man builds castle out of wood? In a siege those same, pretty walls would be set alight in an instant, along with the people inside. Even worse was the terrain – wide, rolling plains, which offered no real geographic advantage, except for the single hill upon which the castle resided. Otherwise, it was dull as a winter's day. But alas, here he stood, sneering at a tapestry depicting some Barrowland Knight, when Lady Dustin found him. Her face, once handsome, was taught with displeasure and a mocking courtesy.

"Lord Bolton, what a pleasant surprise! I thought you'd forgotten about us, why your last letter was nigh two months ago!" Roose did not so much as glare at her.

"Enough, Barbrey. Where is my daughter?" His voice he kept flat and cold, uncaring for her opinion on any of his affairs.

"Oh, so you remember her, now do you?" she sneered right back at him, "You have barely a right to call her that. Not after you sold her to the Ironborn."

"And she will be all the happier for it," Roose snapped, allowing some of the latent malice in his heart to seep through into his voice. Something cold and cruel in him warmed at the sight of Barbrey Dustin's stricken expression, her pleading eyes. She loved his daughter, the fool. Well, she'd had her fun. The girl was to be tainted by her soft-heartedness no longer.

That would be the worst thing, Roose thought, for the girl to turn out to be a simpering fool when she had so much promise before. It would mean that all his work appeasing Ramsay these past years would have gone to waste, and that was not something he could tolerate. But Roose did not worry overmuch on that account; from what little he remembered of his daughter's character, she was certainly no bleeding heart.

"You are a cruel man, Roose Bolton." Lady Dustin whispered at long last. Roose could only roll his eyes.

"Yes, I am. Now where is my daughter?"

"Here, father," a gentle voice floated across the room, "I am here." Roose turned and found himself confronted by a slender young woman, practically the very image of his deceased wife. No wonder Lady Dustin had grown attached. The girl met his eyes carefully.

"Pryskilla," he said the first thing that came to mind, "You're a woman now."

"I am, father. A married one soon, I hope." He curled his lip, prompting her to break their gaze.

"You hope for no such thing. Do not lie to me."

"Then I do not wish to be married." Pryskilla met his eyes again. Bold. Beneath the silk, Roose sensed steel, and it reassured him.

"Good. You must never forget your purpose in this."

"To ensure our line continues. I am aware, father," she clasped her hands before her, "I did not expect to see you here for some time. Is there news?"

"Hopefully an end to this farcical betrothal!" Barbrey Dustin interjected herself yet again. Her hands, she tossed over her head, before placing them on her wide hips, a look of desperate exasperation on her face which vexed Roose utterly.

"Lady Dustin, I must ask you to leave us in peace. I will speak to my daughter alone."

"You snake," she hissed, looking remarkably like a snake herself.

It was Pryskilla who took steps to soothe her ruffled feathers.

"Peace, Aunt Barbrey," said she, her voice low and calming, "I will relay to you everything later."

She and Lady Dustin seemed to commune silently for a moment before the older woman relented. Roose was treated to one last withering glare as she stalked angrily from the room. He looked then to his daughter who watched him warily. They stood apart at an awkward distance, too far to be familiar and too close to be comfortable. Roose wasn't exactly sure what she expected of him, nor indeed how he was supposed to conduct himself before her, but he was nothing if not poised.

"Is the bastard at the Dreadfort?" He did not miss the wrath in her tone, a pleasing sign to the Leech Lord. It meant that she had yet to be robbed of her Bolton nature, though Roose now slightly regretted informing her of his plans. There had not been a way around it, if she was to play her part sufficiently. He needed her cooperation and her distance from the Dreadfort until there was an heir.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I do not answer to you, daughter."

"You are hosting your son – _my brother's_ – killer at our ancestral seat. I am owed an explanation!"

"You are owed nothing. "

"So you would sell me, your _daughter,_ like a breeding sow, and lavish upon your bastard the comforts and privileges meant for the man he murdered?" She scoffed, trying her hand at aloof, self-importance, but to Roose it was more the plea of a petulant, disgruntled child. She did not see the strike coming before the force of it whipped her head to the side. Roose returned to his place in the same moment.

"Barbrey has made you disobedient."

She quieted in an instant, a hand on her reddening cheek and a twinge of fear in her eyes. _Good._ A lack of fear had been Domeric's downfall, and was soon to be Ramsay's as well.

"Hear me now, daughter. In two months' time you will journey to Winterfell. Lord Stark means to delay the wedding on account of the King's visit. We shall let him. But your presence will serve as a reminder of our agreement. This betrothal cannot afford to be broken." There was no protest from her now, and Roose could not decide if it was an improvement or not. Blind obedience was just as dangerous as un-tempered will.

"As you wish, father." He considered her tone a moment longer.

"Have you finished your preparations?"

"My maiden's cloak is close to completion. The gown has been done for some time. I have also familiarized myself with Ironborn customs and history."

 _Wise,_ thought he.

"The gown, is it made to my instruction?"

"Of course. Modest. Just as you said." Roose nodded minutely. He would not have her looking a harlot. Her virtue must be unquestionable.

"And has Lady Dustin explained to you the nature of your wifely duties?" Her pale face reddened almost imperceptibly and she looked away.

"She has."

"Then we are finished here. I will return in two moons to take you to Winterfell."

"Wait, father!" He turned and looked at her expectantly. She bit her lip as though deciding something, "What of the bastard? What does he know of all this? Surely he will come for me if he finds out that I am married!"

"Only if he believes you to be a threat to his 'inheritance.' Have no fear, my daughter. I will let no harm come to you." Roose fantasized sometimes about the look on Ramsay Snow's face when he revealed their plans. The bastard knew quite well Pryskilla was to be wed, but through Roose's careful manipulations he was quite convinced that his daughter was a lackwit, as was her betrothed, and any spawn of theirs would be unfit to inherit. Most importantly, Roose had gone to great lengths in teaching Ramsay the art of lordship – not that he ever heeded his father's wisdom – and the smug fool was utterly assured of his ascension.

 _Keep your friends close and your enemies closer_ , as it were.

Pryskilla, on the other hand, seemed to accept his words, before offering some of her own.

"He will pay for his crimes. Won't he?" Though it was phrased as such, it wasn't really a question. Roose felt himself smiling.

 _"_ _Dearly_ , my daughter, I assure you."


	5. V

**-Five-**

 **Pryskilla**

The weeks came and went with a surprising brevity, taking on that surreal quality which usually accompanies a long, dreaded wait. Pryskilla always expected the days leading up to her wedding to be electrifying with joyous anticipation. Instead, they were cold and bitter and altogether too quick. Between furiously embroidering her maiden's cloak and studying the bloody Ironborn, the young heiress barely had enough time to sleep, let alone prepare herself for the ordeal to come. The only good thing she could imagine coming of all this busyness was that it kept her from pondering too much the doubtlessly brutish nature of her husband-to-be. Would he rape her on their wedding night? Beat her behind closed doors?

Truly, the only comforting knowledge was that her betrothed was at least close to her in age and from a noble house. Not a well-liked (or particularly well-off) one, true enough, but lofty compared to House Bolton. If there was one thing Pryskilla was sure of it was that her father, cruel and unreasonable though he may be, would never marry her down.

With that in mind, she resolved not to be a disappointment. If there were to be beatings and infidelity then she would endure it quietly and with grace, like a proper wife. _After all,_ she thought ruefully, what was Ironborn brutality compared to that of House Bolton? In the few years she had actually resided at the Dreadfort, Pryskilla had seen things that most could only envision in their darkest nightmares – whippings, torture, even a partial flaying of some poor cunt who dared wronged Roose Bolton. In the end, there was very little abuse her future husband could dream up that would top _that_ ; he would have to have a very active imagination indeed.

But, regardless of these small assurances, Pryskilla still found her insides curling with apprehension and fear. This night, her last at Barrow Hall, it had even driven her to tears. Well, _that_ was putting it delicately. She was wracked with heady, violent sobs - the likes of which she hadn't known since her brother's death - which had her gasping for air and clawing at her night dress. _Oh, if Father could see me now!_ She lamented. _I bet the bastard never cries – for he is cruel as a winter wind._

"Oh, child…" Lady Dustin's solemn voice cut through the mire, "My poor girl." And then her hands were on her, warm and comforting as she imagined her mother's would be.

"Forgive me, Aunt. I- I can't…" she hiccupped, for the first time truly feeling the anguish that lanced through her heart, "I do not want to be his bride!"

"If I had possessed the power to sever this match, I would. But it is done now, Pryskilla. There is nothing we can do about it."

She hated the truth in Lady Dustin's words. Hated that it hit her _now_ , after she had known of the match for years. It hadn't seemed like any sort of plausible reality until this night. She would be Lady Bolton no longer.

"Take heart, Pryskilla," her aunt pulled her into an embrace, "There is not a woman alive who has not felt your pain. You could do far worse for a husband."

"He is Ironborn!" She exploded from Lady Dustin's arms, "I shall be nothing more than a Salt Wife! A bed warmer! While father plays his games and that bastard reaps the riches of _my_ inheritance! What am I, but a worthless pawn?"

The older woman rose to her full height and Pryskilla was met with a fierce expression. She was much loathe to admit that she cowered under the force of her aunt's reproach.

"Never say that! Never think it! You are a daughter of House Bolton and no young upstart, bastard-born, Ironborn or otherwise, will ever change that. Marshall your courage, girl. Give that boy sons and you will have more power than any woman in the North."

Pryskilla wiped her eyes.

"What if he does not want me? What if he… strays and fathers a… a…"

She could not bring herself to say the word.

"If you have his heart, he will never wander," her aunt said seriously, "Men are easily led by the right woman. Make him treasure you. Give him something no one else can, for once you become the panacea to all his hurts, he will want for no other."

"You make it sound so simple."

"That's because it is," Pryskilla found her chilled hands enveloped in her aunt's toasty ones. _She must have been sitting by the fire before she came here,_ "And once you give him children, it will be simpler still. No bastard could contest their claim. You will have your inheritance."

Pryskilla inhaled sharply. Her family did not possess the greatest history when it came to child birthing – her own mother had died during the ordeal! – and Pryskilla feared that most of all. What if she was unequal to the task? Motherhood was such a foreign concept; Aunt Barbrey always said it was an inclination which came as natural as drawing breath, but then, she had no children of her own. Pryskilla thought back to her own mother. How could you love something that could kill you in the act of seeking its own life?

"What if I cannot?" Lady Dustin looked at her calmly, stroking her hair affectionately.

"Such things are determined only by the Gods, sweet one. If they mean for you to have children, then you shall have them," Pryskilla looked down at the fine white silk of her night dress. _Soon, I shall wear another dress of white_ , "Now, you must sleep, for tomorrow you go to Winterfell."

* * *

 **Theon**

Theon, sleepless, again, gazed up that the ceiling with pensive, shadowed eyes. The Bolton girl was due to arrive any day now and Theon could not help the dread that coiled within him like an eel. This girl, whether she be ravishing or revolting, was to be his for life and there was nothing he could do about it.

In a few weeks a husband, in a few months possibly a father. But most likely never Lord of the Iron Islands.

In all of his nineteen years on this earth, Theon had never spared a thought for any of it. He knew he would marry eventually, but it seemed like such a remote concept, an impossibility lost in the heat of casual encounters and whores who knew better. Now his very future depended on this marriage. With a sigh he rose abruptly, jostling Ros who lay beside him.

"Milord?" she cooed, her voice warm with a practiced sensuality. He'd sought her company more than ever these past weeks, desperate to get his kicks in before he was saddled with a wife. Theon anticipated that it would be thoughts of Ros that would get him through his wedding night and those after. Lord Stark had offered multiple times to obtain a likeness of her but each time, Theon refused. He had no interest in learning about his future bride, not her name, or her hobbies, or even what color her hair was. This whole affair was purely transactional. Nothing more.

"What troubles you?"

"What do you think?" Theon said, a little harsher than intended, but her feigned ignorance vexed him. Ros didn't seem to pay it any mind, however, as she stretched amongst the furs, long, languorous and naked as brass.

"Many a man has had to marry. That does not stop him from seeking pleasure where he will."

"Aye, it does not." Her full lips bloomed into a lazy red smile.

"You will lord over a Northern keep. It cannot be all bad."

"Alas, it is not the keep I want." He spoke of Pyke, the Seastone Chair - _his birthright._ Would this be enough to please his father? If it didn't, this whole farce was simply a matter of changing jailers. Today he was Lord Stark's hostage, tomorrow he would be Lord Bolton's, and on and on it went. Perhaps in a month the bloody Karstarks would have a turn! And the Umbers after them! It was _maddening!_

Theon's bitter thoughts came to an end when Ros skimmed her fingers up his naked back, eliciting from him a pleasured shiver.

"Come back to bed, Milord. It's on the house tonight." He willingly assented, all too eager to lose himself once more in Ros' soft, sensuous body and sweet scent. He tried not to think of the fact that it may very well be the last time.

* * *

 **Pryskilla**

The road to Winterfell was arduous and cold, with little to see and even less to do. Pryskilla sat atop a buckskin mare - an early wedding present from House Ryswell – watching as the familiar plains of the Barrowlands slowly transformed into crowning evergreen woodlands. The last time she came this way was nearly a decade ago and Domeric was by her side. Now, it was her father, his platoon of Bolton guards, and a single handmaiden seeing her safely to her next place of residence.

Pryskilla looked carefully at the soldiers surrounding her. Besides Lord Bolton, there was not one familiar face. This platoon was comprised solely of her father's most trusted guards – a position relinquished only upon death, which begged the question, what happened to the last group? They had been men Pryskilla and Domeric had known from infancy, all skilled and disciplined; men who never failed. _Until they had._ The realization dawned on her as she glimpsed her father's tight expression, as though he were expecting arrows to come raining down upon them. There had been many a rumor of Lord Bolton's legendary cold fury being unleashed in full after his son's murder. Apparently none of the household staff had escaped unscathed. If at all.

She swallowed, a cold chill settling in her bones when Lord Bolton returned her gaze. He was a merciless man - her father - who seldom forgave and never forgot. At first, Pryskilla never understood the capability to be so ruthless. But that was before the bastard. Now she understood it all too well. _I always was my father's daughter,_ she thought.

Another buckskin courser, rider-less and towards the front of the procession, let out a scream of indignation when one of the Bolton knights smacked his rump. Pryskilla recalled that her brother once possessed a stallion of similar coloring - also a gift - but, avid horseman he was, he'd insisted on training the beast himself, something Pryskilla would never dream of attempting. She was a fair rider, but Domeric was one of the greatest in the realm. He lived on the back of his horse. He adored the beasts so much, Pryskilla was surprised that he had not been born Dothraki!

One of her fondest memories of him was but a year before his death, when he acquired his favorite stallion. The beast was one of the biggest, meanest, most beautiful creatures that Pryskilla had ever laid eyes on, and no man dared go near him. Except Domeric. He marched right up to that crazed animal, snorting and pawing and screaming, and laid a hand on his noble snout. There hadn't even been a trace of fear on his face, only wonder and determination. From that moment on, man and beast had shared an unbreakable bond, one which Pryskilla always envied. She remembered as well, after Domeric met his end, that fine, fierce stallion broke his neck trying to escape his stall. They stable boy found him in the morning, dead and gone but eyes still ablaze with a manic fire.

This animal had the same look, though to a much lesser degree. He was a product of the Ryswell's stables as well, and a sibling of the mare Pryskilla rode; together they made a matching set. Pryskilla only hoped her betrothed – no _, Theon Greyjoy_ \- would appreciate the gift. She needed to practice referring to him by name, rather than 'my betrothed' or some such euphemism. After all, they were to share a life. It wouldn't do to fear calling a man by his given name.

Eight days they traveled, though to Pryskilla it seemed all too quick. In the blink of an eye they were entering Stark territory, and in another the great walls of Winterfell were cutting through the skies, blotting out all else except the terror thrumming in Pryskilla's stomach. She craned her neck to spot the Stark sentries atop of the ramparts, looking down on them. Winterfell had a cold, ancient beauty about it that was completely absent in both Barrow Hall and the Dreadfort, and it sent a chill down her spine. _Ghosts,_ she thought. _There are ghosts in these walls._

What particularly stood out to her was the utter and oppressive greyness of the keep. The only splash of color in a twenty mile radius was the party of Boltons, with their red coursers, pink cloaks, and scarlet flayed men. Pryskilla was similarly bedecked, in dark red wool and pink satin beneath her cloak. Upon her left hand was a ruby ring mounted proudly, depicting the flayed man's screaming visage; the ultimate homage to her house. She felt regal and powerful, here among men of her house, and she swore that whomever her husband might turn out to be, she would make him proud to have her as a wife.

"What are our words, daughter?" Roose Bolton's silvery voice floated towards her as the massive gates were opened to them.

 _"'_ _Our blades are sharp.'"_ She answered at once and with finality.

"Keep those words close. If you do not forget them, then neither will they."

* * *

 **Theon**

A ghastly silence descended on the keep as the Bolton men entered. Theon swallowed and made a conscious effort to straighten his posture, trying to disguise his nerves and the frenetic pounding of his heart _. I am a Greyjoy of Pyke and I will show no fear._ He told himself, over and over again, hoping that the proud kraken embroidered on his doublet was enough to mask any inconstancy that might have slipped through his indifferent mask. Let everyone see that he was not one of them, and let Roose Bolton be content with the knowledge that he would relinquish his progeny to an Ironman – Theon did not intend to let him ever forget it.

Lord Stark glanced at him out of his peripheries, no doubt gauging his propensity for inappropriate behavior this day. It was low. Clearly. Any poorly thought out action on his part would reflect just as badly upon the Greyjoys as it would upon the Starks. More important yet was that he had been stationed at Ned Stark's right hand. That was the place of the eldest son - Robb's place. But now, for today, it was Theon's. Only a fool would do something to muck it up.

Something sentimental in him coiled uncomfortably, gave him a surge of anger and sadness. Was this what it was supposed to feel like? Family? Home? He was much loathe to admit that he really had no idea. These days Winterfell was as much a home to him as Pyke. His father had always been distant and unapproachable, and his true brothers picked on him mercilessly, most likely because he had the favor of their mother. Suffice it to say, the dynamic of House Greyjoy was as different from House Stark as night was from day. Regardless of how much they bickered, the Starks and their children were a united front. ' _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,'_ as it were. His family, on the other hand… well, Theon was quite convinced that they all hated each other on some level or another. He knew it now more than ever, seeing as his father had all but disinherited him. What he wouldn't give to feel an ounce of the camaraderie the Stark's possessed. It seemed like some kind of dream.

"Hold it together, lad." Lord Stark whispered when he spotted the scowl twisting Theon's lips. _Yes, yes… that is what you want from me, is it not?_ Put on a happy face, act the good little lord, pretend to be thrilled with the idea of a forced match with a woman for whom he had no desire. All according to plan.

Robb shot Theon a glance that was simultaneously encouraging and sympathetic from around his mother's shoulders, blithely oblivious to the reality of the situation. No one but Maester Luwin, Lord Bolton, Lord and Lady Stark, and Theon himself knew the exact contents of his father's letter, all anyone else knew was that Balon Greyjoy had consented to the match and Theon would be staying at Winterfell for an indeterminate length of time. That he'd also been practically banished from his homelands was no one else's business, even Robb, his best friend.

Theon swallowed thickly, feeling the world closing in on him. The Bolton men were decked in colorful ceremonial armor of maroon and pink. Upon their chests, the crimson flayed man was displayed in horrifying relief against the black plate, mouth open and screaming, seeming to weep blood. The red coursers upon which the men were mounted formed two long, bloody lines from one side of the courtyard to the other, making the couple at the aft of the formation all the more obvious. Lord Bolton rode forth, mounted on a large black destrier. In his black plate armor, and black cloak, and black riding leathers he could have been the Stranger incarnated, so weighty was his presence. It served to make the girl at his left stand out even more.

Immediately, Theon's attention was diverted completely from father to daughter, who was absolutely nothing like he expected.

She was pale and fair, with hair the color of pale gold, or wheat before the harvest. Her posture was impeccable, her air regal, and her garb rich. She looked like a queen in the making. And she couldn't keep her eyes off him either.

Theon open and closed his mouth, idly thinking that he must look like a fish on a hook, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Surely this was a jape! Some cruel joke played by Roose Bolton and his party. He waited in breathless fear for a hag to emerge from behind Bolton lines, the hideous cow he knew he'd been promised. But there was nothing, only Lord Bolton and the lovely girl.

They dismounted and advanced as one, and Theon took the opportunity to appraise her further. Though her chin was down, she moved with the utmost assuredness. About her shoulders was a magnificent cloak of pure white wool, trimmed with ermine and lined with crimson satin. It rippled around her slender frame like a bloody tide.

"Lord Stark, may I present my daughter, Lady Pryskilla of House Bolton." She curtsied deeply, seemingly humbled by the stunned attention lavished upon her. No one, least of all Theon, had expected this, and some part of him that was not too shocked for coherent thought let out a mental whoop of triumph. _What say you now, Winterfell?_ _The Heir of Pyke will have a worthy bride – everything you sought to deny me!_

"And may I present Theon of House Greyjoy." Theon felt the weight of a hundred eyes bear down upon him next, but hers were only pair he acknowledged. It was like looking into her father's eyes - so similar were they - chilling Bolton blue, nearly without color, and brimming with awareness.

Behind him, someone – probably Jory – snickered blithely and it occurred to Theon that they were waiting on him to do something. Heat crept up his neck as he made to perform a swift bow. _Fuck. What must they think of me, standing there like a bloody fool?_

"My lady, it is a pleasure to finally meet you." He uttered, stricken with humiliation, but masking it well. Lady Bolton hesitated only an instant before dipping into a perfunctory curtsy, as though she did not even register his previous lapse. _Thank the Gods._

"The pleasure is mine, my lord," said she, her voice little more than a silvery whisper.

* * *

 **(I lied, this is actually the end of the edited content. Hope you enjoy so far, if there are any inconsistencies between this content and the stuff after this it's because it has yet to be edited and I beg your forgiveness, but my time is short. I'll finish the rest this coming spring. If you are so inclined, I'd love to hear your thoughts!)**


	6. VI

**Hey everybody! New update, as promised. I hope you enjoy it, I've been doing a lot of puzzling over characters, plot, and timeline of late so with any luck the consistency won't be subject to question later on. Anyway, leave me a review if you can, you know how I live for those. Please remember that this is the first draft and I plan to edit and re-upload at a later time. Happy reading!**

* * *

 **-Six-**

 _Dearest Aunt,_

 _You will be pleased to know that I have arrived in Winterfell unharmed and unmolested. The journey was long and cold, but uneventful. Father is the same as always._

 _But that is not the news for which I am sure you are clamoring. My betrothed is not what we expected in the slightest. He is young and comely, to put it lightly; a dandy in every sense of the word. In fact, were it not for his sigil, I would have never thought him Ironborn! However, I believe that there is hope for an agreeable match. Regrettably, we have not yet had the chance to converse at length, but then, neither of us possessed the temerity to speak with father so close. Lord Greyjoy is quiet terrified of him, I think, but who in his right mind wouldn't be?_

 _Lord Stark suggested that we tour the grounds on the morrow before the king arrives, so there will be plenty of opportunity to make up for lost time. Do not worry; I remember all of your advice, and I shall take care not to cause offense. I will keep you updated as events warrant and I look forward to seeing you again. Winterfell is so very different from Barrowhall, and I am not yet sure what to make of it. Lord Stark, I find, is just as taciturn and somber as his reputation proceeds, while Lady Catelyn is kind and good. The Stark children I have yet to meet properly, though they look as though they've inherited the best of their parents._

 _I shall write to you again soon. I am sure the pending arrival of the king will not leave you wanting for gossip._

 _With love,_

 _Pryskilla_

A knock on the door came just as Pryskilla was pressing her grisly family seal into the wax. She gestured to her handmaiden, a girl from the Barrowlands whom her aunt had selected personally, and gave her appearance a last once-over in the burnished bronze plate on the vanity. Her look tonight was conservative, but striking. She chose a flowing gown of scarlet brocade with rubies to match, similar to her traveling attire but much more festive. As Lady Dustin would say: _a dumpy woman does not get the goods._ And no doubt every eye would be upon her tonight, waiting for her to commit some sort of social faux pas, or _worse_ – live up to her family's reputation.

"Lady Bolton, if you would permit, we would be happy to escort you to dinner." Sansa Stark spoke with a practiced courtesy that would have been perfectly placed in a Southern court. She was quite pretty for her age and Pryskilla was certain that one day she would be among the most beautiful women in Westeros. Her younger sister on the other hand, well… Pryskilla hoped that, whomever her husband would be, he would appreciate a wife with spunk. The young girl stood with their Septa, arms crossed in petulant defiance of the prescribed order of things. She looked at Pryskilla with unmitigated distrust, as if expecting her to whip out a flaying blade, skin them, and use their hides for her marriage bed. _Fear is disloyalty's best deterrent -_ so said her father. Now that she really looked, she saw the same wariness reflected in the eyes of the elder daughter, as well as their septa. _How nice it is to be a Bolton_ , thought she ruefully.

"Thank you, Lady Sansa, it would be much appreciated. I'm afraid I am utterly useless with navigation." She gave them her most affable smile, eager, despite past admonishments, to establish her own allies within House Stark.

Sansa smiled sweetly in kind as she joined them.

"I am sure that's not the case, Winterfell can be quite confusing to those who do not know its halls."

"You are too kind, my lady." Pryskilla demurred.

"Sansa, please. It seems silly to rest on such formality, not when we are to be practically sisters."

"Of course. I did not realize you and Lord Greyjoy were so close." Sansa let out a pleasant laugh, her nose wrinkling prettily.

"Theon has lived here nearly as long as I have. He is like a brother to Robb."

"I hate Theon." The younger Stark daughter piped up, frank and obnoxious, but Pryskilla did not take offense. What she was more concerned about was the two very different perceptions of the same person. Which one was correct? Which one would be joining her in the marriage bed?

 _"_ _Arya-_ The imposing Septa began in earnest, while Sansa glared ominously.

"It's quite alright, Septa. It takes more than a little bluntness to ruffle my feathers," She flashed a little smile at the bristling young maiden, whom, she noted, was far more Stark than Tully. _Was frankness in the Stark genes then?_ The wild girl – _Arya,_ she reminded herself – grinned broad and smug then in the face of both her sister and the septa, and Pryskilla found herself almost wishing that she was capable of such defiance.

"Are you truly going to marry him?"

"You must be so very excited!" Sansa and Arya spoke simultaneously, and Pryskilla was shocked by the vast difference in their temperaments, as if it hadn't been obvious before. She gave them a sad smile; she and Domeric had been the same way.

"I will do my duty. Whether or not it will be a thing of joy is another prospect all together." Neither of them had anything to say on that count, but it was all the better, for at once they were bathed in the golden light of the great hall when one of the Stark guards pushed open the door. Lord Stark and her father were already seated beside each other, a place of honor which Lord Bolton looked satisfied to assume. Lady Catelyn was absent, presumably collecting the youngest of the Stark brood. The two eldest Stark sons were placed across from their father, and next to Robb Stark, Pryskilla recognized Theon easily. His dark head was tossed back in jovial hilarity at something Robb said, broad shoulders shaking with the force of his revelry. _He has a wonderful laugh,_ she thought. A small smile crept up her lips, but it was quickly quashed upon seeing Lord Bolton's pointed stare. _A shiny exterior can easily belie the rot inside_. She sighed and re-comported herself before approaching the dais.

"Lady Bolton," Lord Stark and the other men at the table stood upon their arrival, "Your rooms are suitable, I hope?"

"Yes, Lord Stark. Very much so," she kept her eyes and chin up; it wouldn't do to appear weak in someone else's home.

As she took her place she was made very conscious of the eyes upon her, especially those of the svelte young man at her side. He watched her openly, with a certain heat that Pryskilla could feel in spite of her thick gown. Or was it her own blush that was doing it? She shuddered at the prospect.

Attraction was something she had never expected to feel in regards to her husband-to-be. It was an unfamiliar, bothersome thing that had her sneaking glances his way whenever there was a lull in conversation, but made her scared stiff of saying a word to him. Her tongue felt like a lead weight in her mouth while her heart fluttered like a wild bird trapped in a cage. _Make him want you,_ Aunt Barbrey chided, but alas, Pryskilla felt all of the boldness flee from her breast. The best she could do was sit attentively and attractively, listening in earnest and speaking when spoken to, but never to him. How was he able to make her pulse race so readily? Turn her from masterful to mute with but a look? No boy in the entirety of the Barrowlands possessed such power, or held such a marked magnetism. _Was it a Greyjoy quality, perhaps?_

Pryskilla pondered this, among other things, between bites of richly seasoned venison - a welcome change from the gamey meats they'd dined upon during their travels - and set about observing the rest of their gathered company. She had never set eyes on a Stark before, except for Lord Eddard once, following Greyjoy's Rebellion – _oh, the irony_ – and she remembered only that his company came in stark contrast to her father's. Even from a distance she could see kindness inherent in his otherwise stoic gaze, as well as the blatant mistrust. He was not a man of emotional subtlety, at least when it came to showing his displeasure, and the same look was upon him now as he conversed with Lord Bolton. In fact, that seemed to be the sentiment of every other Stark at the table, aside from the young ones and Sansa, ever courteous. Even Pryskilla was not extended their faith, though to her knowledge she had not displayed any of the defining Bolton characteristics.

Rationally, she knew their misgivings were perfectly justified, given the ignominious history between their houses, but she also couldn't help but feel a little affronted. _Is that why they have given me to a Greyjoy?_ _Kill two traitors with one stone_? One look from Lady Catelyn confirmed it; hers was perhaps the most thinly veiled suspicion, leveled at Bolton and Greyjoy alike.

"Is it to your liking, my lady?" Pryskilla jerked her head around and found herself lost in expressive dark eyes.

"Very much so, my lord." She mentally kicked herself upon realizing she'd just uttered the exact same response she had a moment ago to Lord Stark. _Pull yourself together, bloody stupid waif._

"The meat is from out last hunt. I felled the stag myself," he declared proudly, though his words were quickened by a desire for conversation. As she was clamoring for something intelligent to say in return, Robb Stark beat her to it.

"Will you shut up about that bloody hunt? You've been going on about it for days!" His voice was mocking, the only aim to embarrass his friend and elicit a reaction. It worked. Pryskilla was momentarily forgotten as Theon shot Robb a dark look, his dander up in a second. But friendly-like, as any brother would be. Perhaps Sansa was in the right then.

"So would you, if you were any good with a bow!" Pryskilla glanced at her father who was currently engaged by Lady Catelyn before jumping into the fray.

"You hunt often then, Lord Greyjoy?" His attention was back on her immediately, as if his little spat with Lord Stark's eldest hadn't happened at all.

"I enjoy a good quarry. It is a good way to pass the time. Among other things," Pryskilla thought she heard a hint of an innuendo and his small sideways grin confirmed it. While uncouth, she was glad for the casualness. Formality had a way of staying her tongue.

"I happen to enjoy hunting as well," she stated, and a broad, handsome grin replaced the smirk from before. An incredibly stirring sight, she decided.

"With a bow?" There was a hint of teasing in his voice, as though he was merely humoring her.

"No," Said she, inclining her head with the hope that it came off as flirtatious, "I prefer hawks."

Theon inclined a sly brow, "Do you? It must be quite dangerous!" Now he _was_ mocking her. And she would rise to the occasion.

"Only if you're an imbecile."

Silence reigned as she looked pointedly at him before he let loose another of those wonderful laughs, proving that it had all been in jest. And, much to her surprise, Pryskilla felt herself chuckling right along with him. _There is hope yet._

 **A** **sha**

It was an exceptionally soggy day in Pyke when Lord Stark's letter arrived. Asha Greyjoy looked flatly at the direwolf imprinted in the wax, something derisive and wrathful in her gaze. The last time they had heard from the Starks was when they stormed the keep, killed two of her brothers, and dragged the third, crying and screaming, into one of the king's ships to be raised a hostage. The jealous, secret part of Asha thought it might have been for the best; Theon was always the weakest of Balon's children, a constant tag-a-long, even when their brothers tormented him – and, more importantly, it meant that Asha was now next in line to take over lordship of the Iron Islands. But that did by no means indicate that she was at ease with the situation. Forget the humiliation, the blight upon their pride - Theon, weak though he might've been, was still a Greyjoy. He belonged to the sea like a bird to the sky, and trying to keep him from it was tantamount to blasphemy _. Fucking greenlanders._

"You best take that to your father now, girl." The old maester barked gruffly and Asha realized how long she'd been standing there, glaring at a piece of paper. She jerked her head and stalked off.

* * *

Balon Greyjoy sat recalcitrant and brooding in his throne, glaring with fierce eyes at nothing in particular. He seemed shrunken, somehow, with age or with the pressure of lording over a stony, infertile, land mass full to the brim with hardened sailors spoiling for a fight. It was anyone's guess, really.

"Father, I have a letter from the Starks."

"Is that so?" He said with little enthusiasm and much disdain, "Give it here." Asha presented the yet-unopened missive which was promptly snatched from her hand and torn open. His eyes flew over Lord Stark's neat script, initially dismissive but Asha saw, quite clearly, his expression grow dark and murderous like a storm on the horizon. Asha knew that look well. He had worn it only once, after Rodrik and Maron were slain, and it was something one never forgot. Asha's mind leaped from one dire conclusion to the next. Was Theon dead? Had he escaped? Did he whelp a bastard on one of the Stark daughters?

"What does he say, father?" When Balon said nothing Asha boldly approached, "What has happened?" Her father's voice was a guttural snarl.

"It would seem that the honorable Lord Stark has seen fit to have Theon married."

Asha was thunderstruck.

" _What?"_ The Starks were going to marry Theon? What gall! What _fucking_ nerve! "He has no right! We must put a stop to this!"

"No." Asha stilled at her father's reply. There was an icy coldness in his voice that sent a chill down her spine.

"Father?"

"We do nothing. Theon belongs to them now."

"But he is your son! My brother-"

"He is no son of mine!" Balon rose abruptly. In his anger, he was anything but shrunken. He was the Lord of the Iron Islands, restored to full potency and Asha was forced to back down, reluctant though she was.

"Theon is dead to us now. Best you forget him." Asha stared in open mouth shock.

"But-

"We will speak on this no more. Now leave me be." She narrowed her eyes, feeling numb and the weight of words unspoken hanging heavily over her tongue. On wooden legs she turned and exited the room.


	7. VII

**What is up my dudes? New chapter for ya, I hope you enjoy. Originally I planned to include the coming of the king in this chapter but upon finishing the scene I decided to end it here. Please tell me what you think, I love reviews. I think what I'm most concerned about at this point is the proper execution of Theon's character and the nuance of making an OC that is not a Mary Sue and yet has a strong chemistry with our man of the hour. You guys will have to tell me what you think about that so far, I know its hard to get to know a character with only a few chapters but I appreciate your opinions. Happy reading!**

* * *

 **-Seven-**

 **Theon**

Theon bristled as Robb's mocking laugh broke his concentration yet again. He lowered his bow, glaring at the young lord with open irritation.

"Do you mind, Stark? I am rather busy at the moment." Robb wore a smarmy little smirk that was utterly foreign on his face; even his wolf pup seemed to be laughing at him.

"You weren't too busy last evening. Giggling like a maid, you were! Who knew that Boltons could be such good company?" Theon groaned low in his throat. Even if his teasing was well-meant, it was wearing his patience thinner by the second. Granted, he was no longer the butt of every joke, but that did not stop the insolent looks from the household guards, or the indignant glares from the maids with whom he'd indulged in a tryst or two.

At least he could boast a pretty bride.

"Watch your tongue, Stark. Before I pin you to the wall by your surcoat." Robb only laughed, despite the long bow leveled squarely at his chest.

"I would love to see you try," His expression softened, then, to one of brotherly understanding, "She is lovely, isn't she?"

Theon issued a rather self-conscious laugh, but did not negate the truth of the statement. Pryskilla Bolton was any man's fantasy, and she was _his._ That was more than he could say for any kitchen wench or prostitute. And the truth was, he found he liked her company, even if their interactions had been limited to a tiny conversation during supper. She was young and privileged and highborn, but not simpering, like so many of the maidens he knew. He had never particularly enjoyed unassertive women with air for brains - no challenge to be had there.

"Like a picture of springtime." He said with pride and Robb chuckled.

"Have you seen Jon anywhere? I wanted to spar with him before the King arrives." Theon shook his head. He suspected that the bastard was making himself scarce while the Boltons were here. It was understandable. Frankly, if Theon had an excuse to avoid the Leech Lord he would take it without question.

"He's probably lurking about the Godswood. You know how he is." He didn't try to disguise the disdain in his voice. Theon held little love for Ned Stark's bastard, mostly for the sake of his being just that – a bastard. In Theon's opinion, a baseborn son should not walk equal to a trueborn one.

"You're probably right," Robb concurred, "Speaking of which, weren't you supposed to take the Bolton girl around the keep this morning?"

"Aye," He slung his quiver over his shoulder, preparing to go, "That I am." Theon was unsettled by Robb's smirk, which looked so uncannily like one of his own, "Now what?"

"If you require a chaperone, I would be happy to be of service," He stated, cheeky as could be, and Theon scowled darkly at him.

 _"_ _No,_ Robb. Thank you. Septa Mordane will do just fine."

"Then I suppose you don't need me to remind you to keep your hands to yourself!" He yelled at Theon's retreating back. A party of Stark guards led by Jory Cassel promptly burst out laughing, making him hot with anger and embarrassment.

The raucous sound chased him all the way into the armory and then into the keep, causing a deep resentment to roil in his gut. Why should he have to endure their jeers, their disrespect? Would they have taunted Robb so? Never, never.

And so it was, that he arrived at Lady Bolton's door, simmering with pent up rage and practically spoiling for a fight. He rapped at the door, much harder than necessary, but he was too incensed to care, either about that or the rudeness of showing up at a lady's chambers without first composing oneself. A wide-eyed maid he did not recognize pulled it open at once, revealing the modest chambers Lord Stark had lent to Lady Bolton, as well as the lady herself, who sat primly at a desk drafting a letter. She looked up at once, meeting his eyes with her unsettling pale ones. Theon was relieved when his thoughts were only derailed for but a moment before he remembered himself and his purpose.

"My lady, I believe you were promised a tour of Winterfell." He flashed his most winsome smile, an attempt to account for his rather impolite entrance. In return, Lady Bolton raised a friendly brow and swept her gaze from his face to his feet and back up again, making him feel stripped and bare. Momentarily, Theon berated himself viciously for not freshening up first. In his haste, the thought had slipped his mind.

"That you did, my lord. Give me a moment and I shall be happy to accompany you," she motioned to her maid, "Sela, if you would play chaperone, please."

"That won't be necessary, my lady. I've already asked Septa Mordane if she would be kind enough to fill the position."

"In that case, lead on, my lord," she rose, and Theon took the opportunity to survey her as she had him. To his relief, she was dressed casually as well in a gown of thick cobalt wool that covered her from neck to toe with her hair loose about her shoulders. Even unpainted and unadorned, she managed to look stately, and Theon could not help the surge of pride he felt as she took his arm and allowed him to lead her down the hall to where the imposing Septa waited.

"Tell me, how do you find Winterfell?" said he, after a moment. Lady Bolton looked up at him, her brow raised again. She had heard his sarcasm.

"How well can you find a place where no one affords you their trust?" Her voice was whispery, but firm. Not unlike Lord Bolton's, only much less ominous. Theon did not know quite what to say on that count. Frankly, it was rather unsettling how much her sentiment mirrored his own, "Though, it would be quite foolish if they did, don't you think?"

"I do not know. Are you planning to have them massacred, my lady?" Theon jested, feeling more at ease.

"If I were, I would not tell you, my lord." The subtle upturn of her lips was wry with playful humor and Theon found himself smirking as well, surprised by the ease with which they got along but liking it all the same. In his mind, Robb's voice echoed teasingly. _Who knew that Bolton's could be such good company?_

Septa Mordane, stern and disapproving as ever when something was to do with Theon, joined them when they reached the great hall. She frowned at their familiarity, the way Lady Bolton's eyes were full of him, the rogue son of another rogue _. Let her be offended,_ he thought _. The old bat._

"Where shall we go first?"

"That depends. Do you prefer death or flowers?" Theon joked dryly and was rewarded with a tinkling chuckle.

"What kind of question is that, my lord?" His only response was a vague smirk, "If I say death where will you take me?"

"The crypts."

"How charming. Is that where the Starks bring all their guests? Or do you intend to do away with me?" _That is the least of the things I would like to do with you,_ he thought. As if sensing his train of thought, the septa sent him a glare.

"I jest, my lady. I was thinking we would start indoors and work our way out."

"Not out-of-doors?" Theon curled his lip. He had no wish to go on parade for Robb and Jory's fucking band of mummers.

"Decidedly not."

"Then, I am at your mercy, my lord. I am afraid my sense of direction is rather lacking when it comes to labyrinthine halls." Theon quite liked the idea of having the pretty Bolton girl at his mercy. The thought of her opening her legs for him and only him was very attractive indeed.

The two traversed Winterfell's many corridors and various rooms for perhaps an hour, maybe more. Theon certainly wasn't keeping track of time, and neither was the Bolton heiress. They talked of everything and nothing, but Theon found that, for once, small talk did not bore him to tears, even if it was a little bland. Every so often he shot a glare in the direction of Septa Mordane, whose watchful eye had not strayed for an instant, preventing him from broaching any topic of true interest. Or better yet, dispense with the talking and abscond to a quiet corner for the remainder of the morning.

With that in mind, Theon resolved to find every last staircase in Winterfell. Hopefully the old bat would tire and leave them in peace long enough to make a quick escape. But, no matter how many stairs he traversed, the woman stubbornly insisted on keeping up, and Theon was left begrudgingly impressed by her fortitude. Lady Bolton, on the other hand, seemed not to have caught on to his scheme, but the look she gave him when he insisted on showing her the rookery at the top of the maester's turret was enough to melt steel. He desisted after that. Though, as fortune would have it, Arya Stark chose that moment to dash past, hair in tangles and clothing muddied, causing them all to pause in astonishment.

"Arya!" Septa Mordane barked and without so much as a look their way, chased after Lord Stark's wild daughter, leaving the Ironborn lord and his lady quite alone.

"My word! Is she always like that?" Lady Bolton broke away from him to watch the fleeing hellion.

"Arya? Or Septa Mordane?"

"Lady Arya." Theon chuckled.

"I am afraid so," as an afterthought, he added, "And this is good behavior."

"Lady Catelyn will not be pleased."

"She is scarcely ever pleased with that girl." He shook his head in mock exasperation. Truthfully, after to Robb, Arya was his next favorite of the Stark children. She had guts, and her fantasies were not nearly as sickening as her sister's.

"She seldom seems pleased with anyone." Theon was silent for a moment, taking in her thoughtful demeanor.

"Perhaps you're right," he offered his hand to her again, "Come, my lady, there is still more to go."

"Shouldn't we wait for Septa Mordane?" Theon scoffed.

"By the time she finishes wrestling Arya the royal party will already be on their way back to King's Landing," he chuckled at his own joke, but took measures to assuage any remaining uncertainty on her part, "We can go outdoors, if you wish. It is more interesting out there anyway."

"That would be lovely, my lord."

"Theon."

"Pardon?"

"When we are alone, I would have you call me by my name." Pride swelled in his chest when he caught sight of her delighted smile, and Theon wondered how such a lovely creature could possibly be the fruit of Roose Bolton's loins. She was nothing like him.

"Only if you promise to do the same." Theon smirked, full to bursting with self-assuredness. With a bold hand, he brushed his fingers along her jaw, leaving a trail of flushed skin in his wake that betrayed her interest. Pale eyes were fixed upon him, shocked and unsure – but willing, most of all.

"I would be glad to," was his response, uttered in low, dusky tones. He meant to entice and charm her, possibly steal a kiss. Surely her virginal nature would not alienate her from such a harmless little gesture? Not even Sansa would be so frigid.

"Theon?"

 _Gods damn you to the furthest reaches of every hell in existence, Jon Snow._

"What do you want, Snow?" He did not give him the respect of looking him in the eye. Rather he remained facing his pretty Bolton bride, whose posture had grown stiff and formal while any trace of lightheartedness flew from her eyes, leaving them icy and contentious. Before Jon could say anything for himself, she stepped around him, superior, cold and vicious.

"You're Lord Stark's bastard." Her voice cut deep as any blade, and Jon recoiled a step beneath the force of her censure. He looked unsure, glancing Theon's way more than once as he searched for the proper answer.

"Yes, my lady, I am."

"What is your name, bastard?" she uttered in the whispery tones of her father. Theon was astounded by the depth of her hostility, but then he remembered. _A bastard murdered her brother. Of course she hates him._ To Jon's credit, he neither flinched nor hesitated, and Theon was almost inclined to pity him. In truth, he was quite enjoying watching the exchange.

"Jon Snow, my lady."

"And what are your ambitions, Jon Snow?" A threat lay there, amongst the softly spoken words, that only a fool would have a mind not to heed. Theon came to stand beside his furious bride-to-be, his smile out in full force against the boy, who looked between the two of them with simmering misgiving.

"I seek nothing that is beyond the constraints of my station," he uttered lowly, "my lady."

The air crackled with electric silence as bastard and Bolton stared each other down, until, at last, Jon averted his gaze. Lady Bolton rolled her shoulders back, sensing she had won. Victory suited her well

"Never cross my path again, bastard."

"I will make sure of it, my lady," Theon heard clearly the note of flippant defiance but did not address it as Jon turned to him, "The king will be arriving soon, Lord Stark has instructed us to prepare."

Theon watched as he stalked off, no doubt searching for a place to sulk, and only once he was out of sight did he turn to Lady Bolton, a smile, ever infallible, upon his lips.

"Pray I never find myself on the wrong end of your wrath, my lady," he joked.

"Refrain from siring a bastard and you never will." She said, though it was only partly in jest. There was a certain darkness in her tone, like a bitter poison swirling amongst sweet wine that was as gut-wrenching as it was intoxicating.


	8. VIII

**Aaaaaannndddd, here we have it folks. The infamous arrival. I hope, like always, that you enjoy. Please do review, if you can, and tell me what you think insofar. I'm trying to minimize redundant text and encounters that appear in the book and tv series and focus instead on plot-driven content. My goal is that every section advances the plot, rather than just providing "filler." Also, I hope you like Pryskilla so far. Anyway, happy reading!**

* * *

 **Arya**

Arya did not understand why everyone was throwing such a fit over the coming of the king. The way she saw it, the king was but flesh and blood. A man - same as her father, same as Robb, same, even, as the chilling Lord Bolton. Why should they prostrate themselves before him? Moreover, why should she submit to Septa Mordane's yanking fingers in her hair and clothing? It wasn't as though they sought a match for Arya amongst the king's party. That was Sansa. She was their pretty prize.

"Hold still, girl. I won't have you looking like a ruffian," Septa Mordane punctuated her statement with a particularly hard tug, making Arya growl in indignation.

"What difference does it make? No one is going to be looking at me."

"Your lady mother will. And I can assure you that her retribution will be swift and violent if you embarrass House Stark." Arya was quiet after that. At least relatively so. Lady Catelyn was not one to be trifled with and Arya was conscious of her limits, especially on a day like today.

Sansa came in then, followed closely by Jeyne Poole, whom Arya hated vehemently. Her sister was dressed in a lovely blue gown, with lovely silver jewelry, and lovely flowers in her lovely hair, looking like a Tully version of fabled Jonquil.

Arya rolled her eyes.

"Sansa, you look wonderful dear." Her sister turned her eyes down, perfectly demure, "There you are," Septa Mordane affixed the last braid in Arya's hair and observed her work with a critical eye, "Do not ruin it."

Arya nodded and as soon as she was out of sight of the domineering Septa, she yanked the intricate plait from its anchor atop her head and let it fall against her back.

"Did you see Lady Bolton?" Jeyne Poole tittered without thought for who might be listening, "Dressed like a septa!"

She referenced the high-necked gowns Lady Bolton seemed to favor, none of which were unflattering. _Better a septa than a slut,_ Arya opined, but said nothing. She was not willing to be vocal in defense of the Leech Lord's daughter. There was just something about Lady Bolton that made it impossible to get the measure of her, and until she did, Arya would keep her opinions to herself.

"A very lovely septa," Sansa offered, "Theon seems to like her."

Jeyne scoffed.

"She'll never keep him." _Neither will you,_ Arya thought nastily. It was no secret that Jeyne Poole had her girlish fantasies about her father's ward, and she was unlikely to relinquish them just because Theon was due to be married. It was exceedingly stupid, in Arya's opinion, and so she raced ahead and was soon lost in the throng of Stark and Bolton men at arms.

Even without the king's party, the courtyard of Winterfell was positively full to the brim. Arya had never seen so many people gathered there. Her father and mother stood at the forefront. To their right was Robb and Sansa and Bran, all impeccably groomed. To their left was the Leech Lord, looking as unreadable and unsettling as ever. Arya narrowed her eyes. Every moment he was here was one moment more she felt the need to look over her shoulder, to see if his unnatural pale eyes were watching her, scrutinizing, trying to find the best way to separate her skin from her bones.

It was a silly thing, she thought. Roose Bolton, terrifying though he may be, would never harm the children of his liege lord. _And yet…_ Arya could not shake the feeling of unease whenever she found herself in his presence.

His daughter was not so different, though it was self-consciousness, not fear, which she inspired. Arya may have had her reservations, but she was begrudgingly impressed by the way Lady Bolton held herself. Anyone who could make Theon Greyjoy look like a king was worthy of at least a little respect.

The pair of them stood tall and proud in their house colors, looking like a couple of co-conspirators when Lady Bolton whispered something that made Theon smirk. _What could possibly be so interesting?_ Arya would never know.

"Look! Here they come!" Bran whispered to her excitedly. Indeed, the first riders, bearing the royal standards of Baratheon and Lannister, had begun to pour past the gates. _There are so many,_ she thought, _how will we ever garrison them all?_

The initial wave of riders was followed in a fashion by an enormous, gilt wheelhouse, no doubt bearing the queen and her younger children. There was a tall youth with golden hair, expensive riding clothes, and a haughty air - _the prince,_ Arya surmised. She thought he was ugly. Next to him was Jaime Lannister, unmistakable in his gilded armor shining bright like the sun, and then, finally, the king himself.

Arya was appalled.

He was no king, nor great warrior, he was barely even a _man,_ bloated and red-faced as he was. There was nothing about him that even scarcely resembled the man they grew up hearing stories about, the one after whom her brother was named. _They expect us to kneel to him?_ She thought in disbelief. _What a jape!_

With great difficulty, the ballooning sausage of a king dismounted his destrier and surveyed their gathered company. The men and women of Winterfell knelt in the snow in respect of the once-impressive Robert Baratheon. Perhaps the only impressive thing about him now was his height, though that was matched early in full by his girth. He lumbered up to her father, silks straining and doublet stretched tight over his vast stomach like the skin of a drum. A poor sight, all in all.

"Ned!" The fat king roared like a madman and seized her father in a smothering embrace, which he returned willingly, "You have not changed a bit!"

Woe that her father could say the same.

They exchanged pleasantries and salutations like brothers long parted, which would have been painfully sentimental were it not so grotesque. The king's family approached then, and what Arya was most struck by was the colorfulness of them. The rich reds and pinks and blues, so out of place against the monotone backdrop of the north. They looked as ease as a fish on land. Queen Cersei was at the fore, flanked closely by her gilded brother, the tall, ugly prince, and her two other small children. She was a breathtakingly beautiful woman of Southern make whose temperament seemed made to measure as she treated everyone to a dismissively imperious stare. Arya found herself narrowing her eyes at the woman. And also at Sansa, who gazed at the queen with undisguised admiration and the ugly prince with a shy desire.

"Cat!" King Robert threw himself on their lady mother next.

"Your grace," she replied, full of poise as the king straightened, his large smile faltering when he noticed the silent, pale-eyed lord to her left.

"Lord Bolton," he said gruffly, "I did not think to expect you here." The Leech Lord inclined his head, the picture of the perfect loyal subject, and replied in his spider-soft voice.

"I hope my presence will not bear cause for umbrage, your grace."

"Nonsense!" Robert Baratheon was once again light of heart and slapped the northern lord amiably on the shoulder, "A friend of Ned's is a friend of mine!" Lord Bolton said nothing as the king moved on, but Arya could see the wheels in his head turning. She sensed in him a kindred spirit, at least as far as opinions of the king went, and she was impressed by how exceptionally proficient Lord Bolton was at masking his distaste, much unlike the queen, who glared at the Leech Lord and his men with unmitigated disdain. Arya thought that if looks could kill, the man would be the living embodiment of his own sigil.

Robb was next slated for scrutiny. The king approached him with more affection in his mien than he saved for his own family and clapped one hand in both of his. Arya wondered if he was looking at the son he wished he had. A strong, capable youth instead of the gilt fop practically hanging off his mother's skirts.

"You must be Robb, the heir." Her brother nodded, humbled beneath Robert Baratheon's acknowledgement. The king made to move on to Sansa, but something appeared to catch his attention. He tilted his head upward, over Robb's shoulder.

"The Greyjoy boy. You still have him, Ned?" Theon looked utterly taken aback by the king's attention, as did everyone else, "Step forward, lad." He gestured impatiently when Theon hesitated; it took a discrete nudge from Lady Bolton to shake him from his stupor. With his head high, he advanced and stood before the king.

"Your grace," said he, steely beneath the king's scrutiny. Arya thought it comical, the contrast between Theon, lean and athletic, and Robert Baratheon, sweating and fat. If the yard was not so quiet, she would have burst out laughing.

"You're a boy no longer," Robert Baratheon observed, looking him up and down, "Is that your Lady Squid?"

It took a moment for everyone to realize that he was referring to Lady Bolton, who looked positively mortified. King Robert descended into wheezing, guttural laughter at his own joke, leading by example for the rest of his party. The Northerners were dead silent, out of respect for Lord Bolton or pity for his daughter, Arya did not know, but she felt her opinion of the king drop ever farther.

"They're not yet married, your grace," her father spoke firmly enough to get the fat king's attention.

"Not yet married?" he roared, "Not yet married! Then by the Seven we shall have them married! There's nothing to lift your spirits quite like a wedding!"

Even Lord Stark was rendered speechless.

"Your grace, we'd planned to have the wedding after the royal party departed." Lady Catelyn stuttered.

"Nonsense - I see no reason to wait! Stop staring like a bunch of slack-jawed idiots! I command it!"

"My love," the queen, righteously outraged as she should be, at last cut in, "We have been traveling for a month. Surely it is an inappropriate time-

"It is the perfect time. I shall hear no more about it," King Robert glared openly at his wife, "Ned, take me to your crypts. I would pay my respects."

He strutted off, clearly proud of himself, and Lord Stark was forced to stride after him, but not before shooting his wife a look that seemed to say _: I will reason with him._ Theon was left standing there, agape, until Lady Catelyn motioned for him to return to his place. He did so without complaint, every step tracked by the furious eyes of the queen and those in her retinue.

Arya looked to Lord Bolton, to gauge his reaction to the blatant humiliation of his daughter and her betrothed, but was confronted only with the same impassive, unfazed mask. The only change she could detect was the hint of satisfaction in his eyes, though whether it was caused by the queen's comparable humiliation or the not having to delay the wedding after all, she would never be sure.

 **Pryskilla**

The rest of the afternoon was awkward, to say the least. Pryskilla felt more like a pariah than ever, though this time her family name had nothing to do with it. In one move, that was not even her own, she'd earned the wrath of the queen and most likely her family. _Damn you, Robert Baratheon._ She grit her teeth, recalling the manner in which Queen Cersei regarded her afterwards. She didn't like to think of how Cersei Lannister might enact retribution. That woman was capable of a great many things, and she possessed to power and the will to see anything through she wanted.

Very intelligently, Pryskilla was wary of her. Which was why she took extra care in her appearance tonight. Her father had informed her perhaps an hour earlier, in no uncertain terms, that he would not shield her from whatever repercussions came of this. Any actions she took, any strength she called upon, would be her own.

 _Well, not entirely._

Theon had been shamed in this same as she, and certainly he had no family recourse upon which to call. If they wanted to save face, they had to pose a united front. Of that, Pryskilla was certain. And so it was that she discarded the Bolton pink and scarlet gown her maid laid out, and selected instead a sable garment lined with golden silk - Greyjoy colors. She hoped that Theon would approve.

"I am sorry for what happened today, milady. I cannot believe a king would behave as such." Said Sela, as she tightened the final plait in Pryskilla's hair.

"It is his prerogative, it would seem, to make us bleed."

"Well, it is deplorable all the same. The great oaf." a small smile tugged at Pryskilla's lips. Now she knew why her aunt had selected this particular maid, "Regardless, I'll wager every eye will be on you tonight."

"Undoubtedly," she murmured bitterly, touching the Bolton ring on her finger. If any good thing had come of this afternoon's debacle it was that her father was finally getting his way. The wedding would occur ahead of schedule, and Lord Bolton could hardly contain his glee.

* * *

It was not Theon whom she encountered, but Lord Greyjoy, as they paired up for the royal procession. His anger was palpable as she took his arm and he held himself higher than ever. Pryskilla had the distinct feeling that she was losing him, his goodwill, at least, as he barely acknowledged her. Lord Greyjoy was a prideful creature and Robert Baratheon's humiliation of him had only served to drive a wedge in their budding relationship. It was imperative that he know she was on his side.

All too soon they were following behind her father through the doors and into the warm light and laughter of the Great Hall, the last in the long procession. Almost immediately, she could feel the stares, could hear the whispers and mentions of Lord and Lady Squid. Her betrothed tensed beside her, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed with the force of his outrage. Pryskilla was sorely tempted to do the same, but there were better ways to make them bleed. She was still a Bolton, after all, and her mask was an impervious one.

 _Let them laugh. A lion concerns himself not with the opinions of the sheep_ , she thought - rather ironically, given that many of their detractors were Lannisters – and took a deep breath, pulling her shoulders back, and looking at them all down her nose. They were all beneath her – beneath _them._ They had to be, for the charade to hold, for she did not feel so powerful. Nay, she felt naked and judged – a condemned prisoner awaiting sentencing. Beside her Lord Greyjoy, seemed to, at last, affix his own mask. Though his was one of smug humor rather than biting disdain. They must have made quite a pair; two charlatans in a room full of critics.

At last, _at last,_ did they take their seats and feel the scrutiny move on. Pryskilla relaxed minutely, but maintained her icy composure. The feast resumed in earnest, though neither Bolton nor Greyjoy spoke unless spoken to, which was not often. In her belly, a deep, hot anger coiled and sputtered every time the queen glanced her way, ultimate derision deep in her emerald gaze _._ Mayhap Lady Lannister and King Baratheon suited each other better than they knew; he the drunken fool who cared not for the words he spewed forth, and she the vindictive harpy who fed off his verbal leavings.

But Pryskilla saw her opening. She leaned over to her husband-to-be, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder so as to better speak into his ear. This way, no could doubt their unity. Her eyes, she kept on the king, whose beard had grown soggy with ale and all manner of delicacy.

"How many chins do you think he's got under there?" she whispered and Lord Greyjoy's eyes widened as he stifled a smile, the first real one of the night. Pryskilla felt immense pride in that. It was blissfully easy to converse with him when he was willing.

"A baker's dozen, at least," he replied when he regained his composure.

"Or two. The drunken oaf."

"Careful, my lady," he looked at her sidelong, an impish light in his eyes, "That is treason."

"There is no treason in truth, my lord," she returned playfully.

"Aye, that'd be the way of it," he leaned toward her, near enough that she could feel his voice rumble deeply in her ear, "Then, in truth, the prince looks like a lady fair."

Pryskilla giggled musically, delighted that they could share in their mutual derision for the royal family and desperately attempting to quash the feverish blush that rose to her cheeks at his proximity. That was something Sansa Stark would do, but never Pryskilla Bolton.

Or so she thought.

 **Asha**

Like any true Greyjoy, the nature of the Lord Reaper's sole daughter was a triumph of passion over pragmatism and instinct over intellect. Though today was proving to be somewhat of an exception. Asha perched on the _Black Wind's_ prow, her gaze tumultuous. Usually it was difficult to see the depth of her thoughts, or the war playing out in her eyes - so adept she was at hiding it - but indecision made her emotions plain as day.

She was angry and impotent, a dangerous combination for the Kraken's willful daughter. Sitting about never suited her as it seemed to suit her father. Asha had to _do_ something.

And so she would.

With a renewed energy she launched herself from her seat and strode across the deck with purpose, barking orders to her men. If Balon would do nothing, then it fell to her to rescue Theon from his predicament. For the sake of their family's honor and reputation, she would not allow Lord Stark to humiliate them like this.


	9. IX

**Pryskilla**

Pryskilla had never particularly enjoyed sewing. Well, no, that was a lie. Pryskilla had no issue with sewing, in fact she was quite good at it. What she disliked was being a fly on the wall, watching as others seemed perfectly at ease with each other while she did not. It was exhausting, watching Jeyne Poole, Sansa Stark, and the others titter away while ignoring her utterly. Was she not worthy of inclusion?

Though, given the subject of their conversation (handsome Lannister knights and Baratheon princes), Pryskilla was almost glad not to be included. She very much doubted there was anything she could contribute, seeing as she was not free to look at other men and was not inclined to anyway. Truth be told, she felt quite out of her element here. The groups she was accustomed to in the Barrowlands almost never consisted of women younger than thirty and most certainly never included more than three people at a time, which left her with very little idea of how she was supposed to interact now. It should have been the simplest thing in the world, really, but nonetheless, her tongue felt leaden in her mouth and her mind remained empty of ways to inject herself into the conversation with girls her own age.

Arya Stark was as close to an ally as Pryskilla had at the moment, even though she was certain the girl hated her. According to Theon, Arya was quite close with Lord Stark's bastard and had not taken Pryskilla's treatment of him in stride. It troubled her to know that Stark's bastard was held in such high regard, especially with the trueborn Stark children, and it occurred to Pryskilla that it might damage her standing in the household to attack him as she did. But even so, the thought of an apology was thin and fleeting. The Leech Lord's daughter did not apologize to any bastard, be he elevated or no.

In any case, and regardless of their respective differences, Pryskilla could see that the young girl was having about as much fun as she, sitting through a morning of pricked fingers and overly-contrived verbiage aimed everywhere but at them. What did they think – that she would flay them where they sat? Tan their hides and have them for her winter wardrobe? Ridiculous.

Besides, it wasn't as though she was to be a Bolton much longer. Lady Pryskilla Greyjoy was up and coming faster every day. That thought caused an unbidden little grin spring to her lips.

"That is very lovely, Lady Bolton." Princess Myrcella's sweet voice made Pryskilla's head snap to attention quicker than any soldier. Her eyes were wide, wondering what she had missed and surprised that she was being spoken to at all. The princess gestured towards her hands, where she held a square of black silk embroidered with an elaborate golden kraken.

"Thank you, princess," she offered a smile, relieved that Princess Myrcella seemed genuine in her compliment.

Septa Mordane, who had yet to appraise Pryskilla's work, now took the opportunity to do so, and snatched the cloth from her lap. Inwardly, Pryskilla cringed, feeling the embarrassment rise upon having such a personal piece of work flaunted for all to see. She had hoped the presence of the princess would keep the woman occupied, but apparently such a thing was not to be.

"Quite exquisite, my lady," the septa beamed at her, "You're aunt has taught you well."

"Thank you, Septa," she said, raising herself up a little. The other girls craned their necks to examine the cloth from where they sat. Pryskilla was quite pleased to see jealousy reflected in some of their gazes.

"Lady Dustin would be very proud indeed, my dear."

Her work was handed back to her and she busied herself again with its completion. The chattering continued, as did Septa Mordane's fervent adoration for the princess and her ladies, leaving Pryskilla to her own devices. At least until she was interrupted again.

"Is that a favor for Theon?" Jeyne Poole piped up, a note of nasal spite in her tone. Pryskilla did not miss the informal use of her betrothed's name.

"That is the intended purpose, yes."

Jeyne Poole hummed in consideration.

"I gave him my favor once."

"Did you?" Pryskilla inquired flatly, uninterested in whatever insipid drivel the girl had ready.

"Oh yes, I left it on his lips before a tourney." Pryskilla raised her head, taking in the Poole girl's grinning face, the triumphant gleam in her eyes. She held herself very still.

"Did you?" she repeated. The Poole girl remained unperturbed, even though Sansa looked at her in alarm.

"Oh yes, I imagine many girls have. Theon is very popular, you see." Pryskilla drew herself up, shrugging nonchalantly, even though, on the inside, she seethed hotly. Her one condolence was that the little chit had not referred to her as 'Lady Squid' or some variant thereof, as many had been doing since fat King Robert coined the moniker.

"Well, I certainly cannot account for _Lord Greyjoy's_ popularity," she forced herself to adopt a sweet smile, though her voice was hard as steel, "but I find the favor longest remembered is the one that lasts more than a moment."

Pryskilla reveled in the Poole girl's enraged expression for but a moment. Any longer and they would see just how much the insinuation cut her. She rose, curtseying to the room.

"If you'll excuse me, I promised Lord Greyjoy I would go riding with him this afternoon. Good day to you, princess. Ladies."

She retreated from them without further ado.

After the feast, Pryskilla had been delighted to find that Theon sought her company more frequently, even unnecessarily on some days. She always sat with him at meals, the perfect position to offer more commentary on the royal party or sometimes even subtle flirtations, but only the latter when he initiated it first and her father was not present. Either way, she found she enjoyed his company immensely, more so when they were alone and he did not feel the need to show off quite so much. He was a man who needed to prove himself, and, in that regard, they were kindred spirits.

To Pryskilla's keen eye, the people of Winterfell were as set in their opinion of the Greyjoy heir as deeply as a Weirwood was rooted to the ground. Whether or not it was a fair opinion was another matter entirely, but Pryskilla found the same was applied to her as well. The Starks were courteous, but distrustful, and it only served to drive Bolton and Greyjoy closer, which Pryskilla thought was probably for the better.

It had not taken long for her to discover that there was indeed reason behind the Stark's low opinion of Theon Greyjoy – he was an insatiable whoremonger, and while Pryskilla could not precisely reproach him for actions taken during his tenure as a bachelor, she would certainly take measures to negate the continuation of such behavior into their marriage. As Lady Dustin would say _: the wife of a faithful man gives him something he is not capable of finding elsewhere._ This, of course, was always followed by talk of cows and free milk which Pryskilla always found confusing, but she did understand what she had to do. The closer her betrothed was to her, the farther he would be from the whores and kitchen wenches. Pryskilla Bolton would die before she saw herself end up like Cersei Lannister.

"Is he to your liking, my lord?" Pryskilla meant the horse, the one her aunt had given as an early wedding present. Today was the first time they were ridden together by their owners.

"Very much so. This is an excellent animal," as an afterthought, he added, "Robb is quite jealous." Pryskilla laughed, enjoying the picture his satisfaction made.

"Of course he is. My aunt's horses are some of the finest in Westeros."

"You're very modest, I see." She gave him a look as if to say _'look who's talking.'_

"I merely repeat what I hear," she glanced over her shoulder to where the Stark guard maintained a distant, though attentive watch over the two of them, "I can show you, if you like."

Theon grinned his mocking grin, understanding what she meant. It would not be the first time they had endeavored to escape from a chaperone, though it may be the first time they had a reasonable probability of success. Pryskilla sensed, keenly and accurately, that Theon would become quickly disinterested with the stiff etiquette required of them prior to marriage, and that was something Pryskilla could not afford. She had to be proper, but by no means prudish, in order to keep his attention, and truth be told, she quite enjoyed the thrill of breaking rules for the first time. Perhaps it was a Bolton trait.

"Over the next ridge, we can lose him there." Pryskilla barely had time to comprehend his words before he was kicking his horse into a gallop. The great beast exploded into action, sprinting away at a lightning pace, and all Pryskilla could do was follow and envy how good of a rider her betrothed truly was.

* * *

 **Theon**

Once again, Theon Greyjoy found himself immensely - though pleasantly - surprised by the actions of his betrothed, a girl who seemed upon first glance to be as prim and unreachable as any septa, and he liked her even more for it. Many times since her arrival, he had tried to imagine what it would have been like to have Sansa in her place. The result was less than satisfactory. Sansa would never dare to mock the royal family right under their noses, she wouldn't take his bawdy jokes in stride, nor indeed laugh along with him, and she certainly would not participate in his efforts to rid them of prying eyes. Pryskilla Bolton, on the other hand, had done all that and more entirely without prompting or cajoling from his end, and Theon was all too eager to make her his.

A fine, proper lady for all but him.

Just as he predicted, the Stark guard was unprepared for their sprint and fell quickly behind, unable to keep up. Theon grinned widely to show his triumph, made even more potent when he spotted Pryskilla at his side, keeping pace effortlessly on her mare. She was a competent horsewoman, perhaps not as polished as himself, but still very good in the saddle. They were soon lost in the trees.

"You ride very well, my lady." He complimented and drew his horse into a slow walk. She beamed, pushing an escaped lock of hair over her ear.

"Thank you. My aunt insisted that we be well acquainted with the saddle."

"You brother was quite the horseman, was he not?" Pryskilla hesitated only a moment before answering and Theon wondered if perhaps it was a mistake to bring up that particular topic.

"Yes, he was. One of the best in the realm, I daresay. He would have done well in the lists."

"You were close, then?"

"Very much so. Besides my aunt, he was the only person I knew in the Barrowlands."

"What was he like? If you don't mind my asking." Theon threw the second part in at the last moment, not seeking to offend her. For once he was genuinely interested in something that did not have to do with whoring or hunting, and it surprised him. Much to his relief, Pryskilla did not seem affronted.

"Domeric was everything my father is not. He was kind, and trusting," a certain darkness swept over her fine features, "And it was his downfall."

"I am sorry." Theon could think of nothing else to say; he couldn't really empathize, given that his own brothers hated him. Pryskilla only shrugged.

"There's no sense in bemoaning the past. I prefer to look toward the future."

"As do I." This, he said sincerely and was rewarded with a coy little smile that he knew was just for him. Her next words were something less than what he expected.

"Do you want many children, my lord?" Now there was a notion! Theon Greyjoy, a father. The idea was alien to him, but the thought of how to _become_ one sent a rush straight to his loins.

"I've never… given much thought to it."

"Neither have I," Pryskilla cracked a small smile, "Though my father will not be satisfied until we give him two sons."

"Two?"

"Yes. One for Pyke, and one for the Dreadfort." Theon scoffed ruefully. It was a pretty thought, but unrealistic.

"That is assuming Stark ever lets me _return_ to Pyke, let alone my… heir." He stumbled over the word, so foreign was it to him.

"He cannot keep you here forever." Pryskilla said, her features steady and hard. Just now, Theon saw her father in her.

"Try telling him that."

"Perhaps you should." His head snapped towards her.

"What?"

"You could speak to him about it. Surely he would not begrudge you at least a visit to your home, your _family?_ Make him see that," a wry little smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, "I know how persuasive you can be."

"Do you now?" Pryskilla raised her chin, farcically haughty, and looked at him down her nose. Her eyebrow was raised. A challenge.

"Yes."

Theon grinned and without warning reached across the gap between them. It was a bold move, but when was Theon Greyjoy anything but? Pryskilla squealed as he lifted her cleanly from the back of her horse and onto his own. Her arms went around him instinctively.

"Theon!" She protested, but it was punctuated by laughter, his and hers, "If we're caught, it'll be hell to pay!"

"Then we won't be." There was no Jon Snow or Stark guard to interrupt him this time, and even if they were here, Theon didn't think he could let her go quite yet. Pryskilla Bolton looked up at him through wide eyes, paler than stone but darker than milk. The eyes of the Leech Lord.

Theon paused. He wasn't normally the type to think about an action before taking it, but this time, for whatever obscure reason, he did. He could very well have her now, if he really wanted to. He doubted she would protest; after all, they were to be married in a week and a half – what did it matter? But there was something, something that made him want to do right by her. She wasn't just a common whore, she was going to be his _wife,_ and, more importantly, this was what everyone anticipated of him, was it not? Every person in Winterfell expected him to be the lecherous debaucher, to take liberties with a highborn maiden outside the confines of marriage and move on to the next willing wench, possibly sire a bastard or two. That was what they expected - nay, what they _wanted._

Well, Theon Greyjoy would be damned thrice over before he gave it to them.

"Theon?" Pryskilla murmured, bringing him out of his momentary lapse. He looked over her features, her large eyes and soft lips, her cheeks flushed a pale pink. She was _sorely_ tempting.

"We should return, before Stark sends out a search party."

"Of course." When she made to return to her horse he let her go without resistance. It hurt, but he managed it.


	10. X

**Hello, hello! I knoowwww right? One right after the other? The truth is, I'm going to basic training at the beginning of August and I'm trying to pump out as much of this as I can, so I apologize if it seems at all brisk. I hope the pace doesn't make any heads spin. Also, I hope the characters all sound, well... IN CHARACTER. I know I'm doing a lot of POV jumping and the purpose behind this is just to get in the head of the person who can best tell the story at that particular time. Do note, however, that this is just a first draft and I WILL be going back to edit and improve the foundations. Anyway, hope you enjoy and review, review, review! The more feedback I get the better I can make the final product! Love ya!**

* * *

 **Catelyn**

She encountered them as they were coming through the great hall. Theon Greyjoy and his Bolton bride. Catelyn narrowed her eyes. She didn't like the way they gazed at each other, the way the two of them always looked as though they were sharing a secret. It was no different now. The girl's hand rested on his arm, laughing at something he'd said, while Theon looked all too smug to have her by his side. The both of them were in riding clothes. They must have just returned.

"Lady Bolton." Catelyn called, determined to separate them. Even if they were betrothed she did not think it appropriate for them to spend so much time together, acting as they did. The girl turned her way. A smile wider than Catelyn had ever seen still stretched across her face, but was extinguished quickly, guiltily, as though she suddenly became aware that there were witnesses to her enjoyment. Theon followed her gaze. His own expression became dour and irritated when he spotted Lady Stark, "Would you join me for a spell?" She kept her voice amicable, but her posture straight and stiff.

"Of course, Lady Stark," Pryskilla Bolton's voice was soft and whispery, her gaze focused. She extricated herself from Theon, who let her go without resistance. Though he, unlike the girl, stared at Catelyn with unmasked accusation, or was it warning? Catelyn couldn't have been sure.

"Walk with me, my dear," Pryskilla acquiesced, falling into step with her immediately, "I've noticed that you and Greyjoy have taken to each other rather well."

"Yes, I think so," she answered in her restrained way, betraying nothing.

"Then you are fortunate. Most betrothals do not move along so swimmingly," Catelyn was sure to keep her tone conciliatory and slightly conspiratorial, "He is quite a handsome lad, yes?"

She watched the color rise to the girl's cheeks, her eyes turned down once again. Catelyn knew that look – she had seen it on her eldest daughter often enough. It was guilty, abashed desire, plain and simple.

"I remember what it was to be young and fancy myself in love. It is so very exciting, isn't it? But you must never let it cloud your judgement, there are-

"Forgive me, Lady Stark, but I am quite sure my judgment is as keen as always." Lady Bolton's voice was, at once, soft as silk and sharp as a blade.

Catelyn raised an eyebrow.

"And you'll forgive me if I find myself a bit skeptical." Pryskilla frowned, and Catelyn was quite taken aback by how much the expression reminded her of Roose, "Has your aunt explained to you what will take place on your wedding night?"

"Yes," Pryskilla asserted, "She made a point of it, actually." Catelyn could not contain a scoff.

"I am not surprised."

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean, my lady."

"You should know, Lady Dustin was, at one point, the nexus of scandal. In the hopes of obtaining a betrothal, she entered into an affair with Ned's elder brother. As you can imagine, it caused quite the stir," Catelyn analyzed Pryskilla's expression and decided that the direct approach was best, "I do hope you are not planning on following in her footsteps."

"Lady Stark, I appreciate your concern, but I can assure you that _nothing_ improper has occurred."

"Is that the truth?"

"Yes, I _swear it_." Catelyn looked her up and down, searching for untruths, but none were to be found peeking through Pryskilla Bolton's stony exterior, her cold gaze, her adversarial stance. A chill ran unbidden down Catelyn's spine. How many times had Roose adopted that same posture? Glared at her or her husband with those same eyes? It may not have been fair to judge the child by the sins of the father, but in that moment, Catelyn wondered if her family was looking at another decades-long standoff with House Bolton. If their efforts at goodwill had been utterly for naught.

But, quickly enough, Pryskilla let her armor fall, and Catelyn was confronted once again with the reserved, polite bride-to-be that Sansa had carried on about since she arrived.

* * *

"Did you speak to the girl?" Ned asked when Catelyn came to their chambers that night. He watched from the bed as she brushed meticulously her long, auburn hair. Sometimes, when he was in a particularly amorous mood, he would brush it for her.

"I did. Though I don't know how well my words were received."

"You did not have to, you know. It is not our duty to guard her virtue."

"I worry less about what happens before the marriage than I do about what occurs after." Ned sat up, now more interested.

"In what way?" Catelyn took a breath and ceased the rhythmic ministrations of her silver hairbrush.

"Do you think we've made a mistake with this marriage?"

"Why would you think that?"

"Have you seen them together?" She said as though it were obvious.

"Yes, they seem to get along rather well. I think they have a good chance at happiness."

"Perhaps. But what if that happiness comes at our expense? What then?"

"I don't see how it could. Marrying that girl will keep Theon bound to the north, and Roose appeased. "

"But, Ned, don't you see?" Catelyn turned on her chair to give him her full attention, "She is so like her father. She hides it well, but I know she is ambitious, and defiant. They could easily become a threat."

"Or she could gentle him in a way that we never could. Besides," Ned cracked a rare grin, "Even if we could cancel the wedding now, I doubt Theon would ever forgive me for it. He came to me today, you know."

"Whatever for?"

"He requested to go to the Iron Islands after the wedding. Demanded, more like."

"And what did you say?"

"I refused," he stated, "I had to."

"Of course you did. If you let him go, he'll never return." _Though that may not be such a bad thing,_ she thought privately.

Ned looked abashed.

"He said that I had no right to keep him here forever, and I don't. But I keep thinking more and more that we won't be able to release him until after Balon is dead. It is the only way to ensure the Iron Islands remain under control."

"I agree."

"It is hardly fair to him," Ned continued, perhaps on some honorable mission to play Devil's Advocate, "Theon has been our hostage for nearly a decade – I think he deserves some measure of happiness."

"Yes, I believe he's made that quite clear, the way he struts about now."

"Hasn't he always done that?" Catelyn and her husband shared a laugh. She reflected that moments like these were what had initially warmed her heart to Eddard Stark, and later what had kept it constant after so many years. He was such a dour man; it was pleasing to know that she was among the few who could bring out the lightness in him.

"I suppose you're right. I just want what is best for our family." Ned sighed, knowing the meaning beneath her words.

"Cat, you know I cannot go back on my word. I promised Robert I would be his Hand. It is done."

"I wish you would stay. Robb is still so young…" Catelyn dropped her head, staring down at her fists clenched on her lap. She worried for all her children, but Robb was her firstborn and the future of House Stark rode primarily on his shoulders.

"Cat…" Ned had approached and knelt beside her. He took both of her soft hands in his large, calloused ones, "Everything will be fine, I promise. Robb is ready, and even if he is not, think of this as practice. You will be here to help him, as will Maester Luwin. I am certain that once the Boltons and the royal party leave it will all be much easier to manage."

"Promise me you will return to us."

"I swear it on my life," he brushed her cheek with the tips of his fingers, "Come, let's go to bed."

 **Pryskilla**

"I don't think Lady Catelyn likes me very much."

"What makes you say that, milady?" Her maid inquired from across the room where she was returning Pryskilla's gown to her wardrobe.

"She interrogated me, about pre-marital relations, no less."

"And have you engaged in such relations, milady?" The maid, Sela was her name, turned to face her, a barely perceptible smirk on her lips. Pryskilla sighed.

"Oh, not you too..."

"I can't help what I hear. You and your lord are the talk of all the household maids."

"Is that so?" Now it was Pryskilla's turn to smirk. She was not particularly vain by nature, at least not outwardly, but she did enjoy having the envy of most every unmarried girl within the castle. It made for fine entertainment.

"It is. Though I couldn't fault you for sneakin' off somewhere. I probably woulda' done it meself if I were marryin' someone like him. He's supposed to be very good in the sack." Pryskilla laughed sardonically, while fixing Sela with an over exaggerated stare, trying to emulate Lady Catelyn from before.

"And how would you know? Have you had a go with him too?"

"Don't need to. Like I said, they never shut up about 'im down below."

"Now I am starting to see why my aunt picked you for me."

"Lady Dustin's got good sense. Thought you might be needed a pair of eyes and ears handy."

Pryskilla nodded and from her finger she pulled the Bolton ring and set it on the vanity.

"Then tell me, what else do the maids say? Anything of interest?"

"Well, quite a few of them speak of the king. The one's he's 'ad his way with at least," Sela looked over her shoulder before continuing, as if she thought the walls might be listening, "But, randy as he is, he and the queen never share the same bed." Pryskilla only sniffed airily.

"Any fool could have deduced that."

"Maybe so, but 'ere's the part you'll be interested in. According to a couple of girls, the queen 'as a lover too, but none of them can figure out who it is."

"Really? Now there is a scandal."

"It's just vapid rumors, milady, probably nothin' more. And, to be honest, I think many of 'em fear what the queen would do if she found out they was jawin' on about it."

"Of course they do. That woman is worthy of fear. I shudder to think of what would happen if she and my father ever got to talking," Sela giggled childishly behind one hand, "What is it now?"

"What if _he's_ her secret lover?"

Pryskilla nearly choked on her own saliva, revolted utterly by the thought of Cersei Lannister and her father doing… things. It was not a pretty picture.

"Oh, bite your tongue!" Sela stepped back, hands up in peace.

"Only jestin,' milady. Didn't mean nothin' by it."

"Good, because forget what the queen will do, if that ever got back Lord Bolton he would have you flayed and your rotting corpse hung from the ramparts!" she exhaled quickly her latent shock, and went on in a grave tone, "He is the last man you ever want to trifle with, you mark my words."

"Yes, milady." Sela said, thoroughly chastised.

"Let us never speak of _… that,_ again."

"Certainly, milady. You won't hear it from my lips. We shall speak of happier things," Sela took over the brushing and braiding of Pryskilla's hair, "Are you excited for your wedding?"

"Excruciatingly so," she breathed, feeling the smile bloom across her lips. She supposed that was Lady Dustin's other purpose in giving her a maid. It was good to simply talk with another female who was beholden to no one but her, "I don't know how I will last this week."

""You'll manage," Sela patted her shoulder.

 **Asha**

"I 'ent been this far inland in decades. Damn shite never changes." One of Asha's men asserted from his position across the table. The topic in question was the quality of the cooked meals at the inn Asha's party had chosen for the night. In this case, stew made from the meat of wild dogs.

"You've eaten worse before." Another fired back.

"And I've damn well eaten a lot better too!"

"What if I cut out your tongue? It'll spare you the taste and us the annoyance." Asha leveled her knife and a vicious smile at the man, one of her oldest companions. Silence reigned. And then he burst out laughing, joined in earnest by the rest of them, Asha included.

"Sharp as your father you are, lass," he said, "You think your brother is the same?"

Asha hesitated a long moment. What kind of man would Theon turn out to be? It had been so long – all Asha remembered of him was a skinny, shy, often weepy little boy. So what had the Starks done with him? And who was this little harlot they were trying to marry him to? The letter they'd been sent had detailed only the girl's name, pedigree, and dowry, which, at least, was substantial, but other than that there was very little. Pryskilla of House Bolton was a faceless, interloping wraith, and if she was half as prissy as her name sounded, Asha Greyjoy was going to have a hell of a time.

"I don't know, Rollam. We'll just have to see. I do know that I haven't made this trip for nothing, and I don't intend to come away empty handed. My brother is coming home!"

"Hear, hear!" the men said, raising their cups and crashing them back down again. From the other side of the room, a serving wench gave them a nasty look.

They continued that way for the remainder of the evening before Asha ordered them get at least a little rest. They had a week's worth of riding ahead of them, and Asha refused to let her companions be at any less than their best. After all, who knew what they may encounter in the Quiet Wolf's den?


	11. XI

**I betcha didn't think I'd pump out another one so soon, huh? Well here it is and here I am. I hope you enjoy it, as always, tell me what you think if you have time and feel so inclined. Initially I had hoped to do the wedding here, but I felt one more chapter of bonding and character development was necessary. Some sparks fly. If you get my meaning... Also, I had a very scary thought as I was writing this chapter and the one previous - what if Cersei and Roose Bolton did get together? Now THAT would be a force to be reckoned with and I challenge someone to write a piece with that pairing. Anyway, enough of my prattle. ONWARDS!**

* * *

 **Theon**

"I spoke to Lord Stark."

Pryskilla's head shot up when he entered, her hand, the one adorned with the grisly Bolton ring, went to her chest.

"Gods, you startled me!"

"My apologies." Theon said brusquely. All morning he'd searched for her, only to find her hidden away in the library, pouring over an old map, "But I did as you suggested."

"What did he say?"

"What do you think?" He snapped, harsher than intended, and immediately reproached himself for it.

"I am sorry."

"No, I ought to have expected it," A rough, bitter scoff escaped his lips, "The _honorable_ Lord Stark won't give up his war trophy that easily." In truth, Stark had been annoyingly magnanimous about it, even going so far as to _apologize_ for the situation _. Theon, I am ever so sorry for ripping you from your family, making you an outsider, and condescending to seek forgiveness nine years later. Can you ever forgive me?_ It had been an _incredibly_ heartfelt conversation and Theon felt _so much_ closer to Ned Stark for it, the bastard.

"What are you doing in here?" He asked suddenly, eager for a distraction, but also genuinely curious. Pryskilla had never indicated that she was a bookish sort, nor had she expressed any interest in the library in the time Theon had known her. He had been comfortable in the knowledge that she was his equal in that regard.

"Escaping. Hardly anyone comes in here, and I've grown tired of sewing." Theon huffed his agreement, nose turned up at the dusty shelves and old tomes. He'd never cared for pursuits of the scholarly sort. It was boring, and no appropriate past-time for a healthy, virile young man. They had maesters for a reason, and Theon always supposed he'd rather _make_ history than read about it.

"Is that Essos?" He gestured to the map his bride had spread out before her.

"Yes," her smile beckoned him closer, "I want to go there someday. To Bravos, and Pentos, and all the rest."

Theon nodded, more consumed with the subtle scent of roses wafting from her hair as he leaned over. He decided then that he wanted a taste of her. Just a sample, something to know what their wedding night might hold.

"We can go anywhere you like." This he said lowly, into her ear like they sometimes did at meals. He didn't care about being seen – Chayle was out cold over his book, "Anywhere in the world." She turned her head to face him directly. They were so close, he could hear the soft sound of her breath catching in her throat, see the slight flush on her high cheekbones. She wanted him, undoubtedly, and just that knowledge set his heart racing like a startled rabbit beneath a hawk's shadow.

"Do you promise?"

Theon, ever a man of action, laid his hand on her cheek before she even finished her sentence. He wouldn't take her, but by Gods he was tired of waiting. Her skin felt feverishly hot, her lips even more so when he moved forward and kissed her firmly.

 _Sweet_ , was his first thought. She tasted sweet, like the first spring berries he used to enjoy as a child, and best yet she did not resist him. Her fingers grazed the hand on her cheek, and she went where he led her, her mouth moving with his in a simple dance. Though there was timidity, he found that it had his blood up faster than if she'd been an expert in the practice.

It was something strange, kissing lips that had not been kissed a hundred times before, or by _anyone,_ save, now, for him. Is this what marriage would be like? A new discovery, a new experience every day, wherever and whenever he wanted? He recalled something Ros had once told him, about getting himself a wife. He wouldn't have to pay and he wouldn't have to _share._

"Oh, am I interrupting something?" Pryskilla gasped and jerked backward out of Theon's reach when Tyrion Lannister entered the room, a mockingly innocent smile upon his unsightly features. Theon glared murderously at the half-man.

"Yes, actually, Imp."

"My apologies then," but he did not sound sorry at all, instead Theon was quite sure he heard him muffle a snicker, "Since you both seem so interested in matters of an academic nature, would one of you happen to know where Ayrmidon's _Engines of War_ is located?"

"Over there, I think." Pryskilla said awkwardly and gestured towards a huge tome on the shelf behind them. Her face was redder than one of Cersei Lannister's gowns.

"Ah, thank you, Lady Greyjoy."

"Erm… it's Bolton, still, my lord."

"Really? You had me fooled." He grinned as he said it, making the both of them look elsewhere in embarrassment. Theon felt the indignation coil like a snake in his gut. He detested being made a mockery of by a deformed little beast.

"You've got your bloody book, Imp. Now leave us in peace," he growled.

"I think I'll stay awhile," the little man sauntered over to the empty chair directly across from them and plopped down as if he owned the place, "It is always enlightening to visit with those of the generation next in line to inherit the realm. Tell me, young Greyjoy, what plans do you have for Pyke? What needs do your people have, and how will you service them? Indeed, what do you know of managing a lordship. Or _any_ ship, for that matter."

"I know well enough," Theon snarled, fists clenched. How he wished he could hit the half-man, show him what Greyjoy's were really made of.

"I am sure you do," Tyrion chuckled, and looked then to the map, "Planning to travel, are we?"

"That's none of your concern." Theon snapped, but was ignored as the Imp looked to Pryskilla.

"I myself am planning to visit the Wall before I depart for King's Landing again."

"Is that so?" she stumbled over her words only once, but it was enough to betray her lasting humiliation.

"It is. Young Jon Snow will be accompanying me as well. He plans to take the black."

"How fascinating." Pryskilla intoned, her voice tight and irritated now.

"You don't approve, my lady, of a bastard making his own way?"

"I don't approve of any bastard, my lord." The imp narrowed his eyes at her, almost imperceptibly, but Theon had been watching him closely.

"Jon Snow has done you no wrong."

"No, he hasn't. But a bastard will always show his true colors."

"You'll find that is true for any man, my lady. True born or otherwise." Tyrion smiled then and Theon did not think it a coincidence that he looked directly at him as he did so.

"How dare you-" Theon began, but Pryskilla was quicker.

"This has been a lovely discussion, Lord Tyrion, but I am afraid we must depart. I promised Lady Sansa I would meet her for lunch." She looped her arm through his, eager to be away, and started for the door. Theon sent one last scorching glare the imp's way.

"I wish you luck in your marriage!" Tyrion Lannister called, "You'll need it!"

His mocking laughter resounded, following them into the hall.

* * *

"What a horrid little man!" Pryskilla exclaimed when they were well away from the library tower. Theon concurred.

"Half the size of a real man and twice as bitter," he shook his head, "Now I know why my father burned Lannisport." Pryskilla hid a laugh behind her hand.

"You ought not to let them hear you say that."

"Why not? What can they do to me?"

"It is not what _they_ would do to you, but what they would have their _dog_ do to you." Theon cringed inwardly at the thought of Sandor Clegane, his horrific visage, and his monstrous size. One lucky hit and Theon could find himself with a snapped neck and a broken skull.

"Are you really meeting Sansa?" He asked, changing the subject.

"Yes, that was not a lie. She asked to see my gown," Pryskilla rolled her eyes good-naturedly, "I suspect she desires inspiration for her own one day," after a moment she added, "I do not envy her."

"Nor I. I pity any woman who would have that bloody little swine." He hoped the edge of bitterness in his tone would go unnoticed by her and was quite relieved when it did.

It amazed him to no end that Lord Stark had deemed _him_ an inappropriate match for his daughter, and yet did not bat an eye when she was promised to someone considerably worse. Theon may have been promiscuous, but he was not cruel or demeaning like Joffrey Baratheon. He would have treated Sansa Stark well, if they gave him the chance.

Likely the case was that Lord Stark had no idea of the boy's true colors, so blinded was he by the veneer of a royal match. Or his wife's ambitions. Either way, and regardless of the insult inherent, Theon wasn't entirely unhappy with the situation. He was getting a pretty wife who tasted of springtime, and Ned Stark's beloved daughter would have a spoilt, vindictive twat for a husband. The irony almost killed him.

"Perhaps Lord Stark will have a change of heart. I could think of ten better matches for her off the top of my head. The Tyrells, for example. Or even the Arryns."

"I suspect that this was the design of Robert Baratheon, more than anyone else. And what great lord would say no to their daughter being queen? Speaking of which," Theon narrowed his eyes at Ned Stark, Roose Bolton, and Jory Cassel as they came around the corner. As always when confronted with a high lord, Pryskilla dropped her gaze and became perfectly demure, as though they hadn't just shattered the bounds of propriety a few minutes ago in Stark's library. Theon wondered if it was intentional or habitual.

"Greyjoy, Lady Bolton, good afternoon." Lord Stark greeted them with a curt nod of the head. Roose Bolton just stared, as though he were trying to peer deep into Theon's soul to get the raw, untampered measure of him.

"Good afternoon, Lord Stark. Father." Pryskilla answered for both of them. If either lord noticed their lack of chaperone they did not comment on it. Jory, on the other hand, raised an eyebrow suggestively at Theon from over Stark's shoulder.

Usually, the Greyjoy heir could coexist perfectly well with Stark's Captain of the Guard, but recently, the man had proven to be a near omnipresent annoyance. He teased him mercilessly when they were in the yard, joined often enough by Ser Rodrik and a number of other Stark guards. The Lannister's were little better, though they at least limited their snipes and petty jabs to mealtimes _. Wouldn't want to waste all the good japes on a single audience would we?_ Theon was starting to think he preferred the Bolton guards, who, while terrifying, were also silent. The Leech Lord would not tolerate any of his men-at-arms making a mockery of his future good-son.

 _Gods_ … in all his life, never had he imagined that he might one day call Roose Bolton _'father.'_

"Where are you off to?"

"To visit your daughter, my lord. I promised Lady Sansa I would lunch with her. Lord Greyjoy was kind enough to escort me." She met the Lord of Winterfell's eyes only once, allowing her gaze to speak in ways her words could not. Theon watched as she did it, and knew that if he were Ned Stark in that moment, he would have absolutely no inkling of her ability to throw propriety out the window. His theory was proven entirely correct when the man shifted his countenance from slightly suspicious to fatherly.

"Well, you'd best be off then. I am glad my daughter has found a friend in you, Lady Pryskilla."

"It is my pleasure, Lord Stark. Lady Sansa is a kind girl, and I am honored to have her friendship." The words rang false to Theon, but only because he'd grown accustomed to hearing her speak. She tended to shrink into herself slightly and raise her pitch when telling an untruth. Or at least an embellishment, in this case. Judging by her father's raised brow, he knew as well.

They exchanged parting pleasantries, much to Theon's annoyance, and were at last given leave.

"I can manage from here, Theon," she said when they reached the deserted great hall, "You don't want to know the words I would receive from Lady Catelyn were we to be seen together. Alone." There was a slight dusting of pink on her cheeks and Theon knew she recalled the library. _Good._

"I can imagine."

Before she could protest, he leaned down and stole another kiss from her lips. Just as sweet as the one before. He left without another word, sending only a secretive smirk over his shoulder at her indignant visage.

* * *

 **Pryskilla**

Sansa Stark was all smiles and courtesies when Pryskilla met her that afternoon, but that all fell away in favor of open mouthed awe when Pryskilla brought out her wedding gown. It was lovely enough, though not nearly to the extent that Sansa Stark's expression would have you believe. Lord Bolton insisted on a modest design - though in the North, how could it be anything but? – and Pryskilla complied, but not without making certain it was a garment worthy of envy.

The fabric was a heavy silk brocade of cream and taupe, shot through here and there with threads of gold – a homage to her new house. The sleeves were flowing and graceful, embroidered with tiny white beads, and the skirt obscenely long. It would be an ordeal to dance in, but a joy to look at.

"It is wonderful, my lady. Did you make it yourself?"

"With plenty of help, I assure you." Pryskilla smiled as warmly as she knew how and found that it was not entirely forced. Sansa may have been young and painfully, sometimes aggravatingly, innocent, but she _was_ kind, and she _was_ good-intentioned.

Joffrey Baratheon would ruin her.

Everyone seemed to have their own little euphemism to justify his behavior _(boys will be boys, he is an energetic child, he has no real outlets, he just takes after his father etc. etc.)_ but _oh,_ Pryskilla knew quite well, thanks to Theon and Sela, what kind of man Cersei Lannister's golden child was turning out to be. He was twice as conceited as a Lannister, and thrice as spoiled, brash as a Baratheon, and cruel enough to rival a Bolton. Apparently, his pastimes included butchering small animals and the occasional servant, and humiliating anyone he deemed lesser than himself, as Robb Stark had unfortunately found out shortly into their visit.

He was unquestionably horrid, but so far, the only one willing to speak candidly in front of her on that fact was Theon, whose opinion of him ranged anywhere from the more affectionate 'daft little shite prince' on a good day, to 'bloody unbearable cunt son-of-a-whore' on a particularly bad one. The latter had Pryskilla howling with laughter when he'd uttered it under his breath one evening and made the whole table stare at them in confusion and disapproval. Her father had harsh words with her later about making a spectacle, but privately Pryskilla did not apologize for her actions. She hadn't laughed so much in years.

"Tell me, Sansa – may I call you Sansa?" The girl nodded eagerly, "How do you find the prince?" Though she expected it, Pryskilla was still quite amazed by the girl's answer.

"Oh, he is most charming. And so very handsome! I love him with all of my heart."

"But you've only just met!" The gravity of the statement was hidden beneath a playful, joking veneer.

"I know, but that must mean our love is that much stronger, if I am to know of it so soon and so acutely." Pryskilla only sighed.

"Perhaps so, Sansa."

She sat at her desk while the girl continued to move about the dress, examining every bit of embroidery and every pearl sewn into the fabric. She was careful not to touch, even though Pryskilla wouldn't have cared if she did. Sansa was not the Stark sister whose sticky fingers and dirty hands were the bane of any fine garb.

"Lady Bolton?" she said after a time, "May I ask you something?"

"Of course." Sansa's gaze turned coy and conspiratorial. A girlish grin pulled at her lips.

"Do you love Theon?"

The hard, reflexive 'no' caught in Pryskilla's throat, nearly choking her. All she managed was a strangled, "Pardon me?"

Sansa giggled.

"I asked if you love him."

"I don't, Lady Sansa," _back to formalities again,_ "But perhaps with time, I may grow to."

"Are you certain?" _Why are you asking me this, Sansa Stark?_

She was infinitely sure that the feelings she held for the Greyjoy heir were nothing of the sort Sansa suggested. Equally as certain was that there did exist some. She liked his company, and the way he made her laugh, and _Gods_ she liked the way he kissed her. He was bold as brass, but she did not find it off-putting; it was rather gratifying to piss on the prescribed order of things. She thought she could very well come to love the heir to Pyke _, but it is far too soon to be thinking of any of that nonsense._

Her father would tell her that love was a weakness only fools shared, even that for one's kin, as proven by Domeric and his doomed attempt at integrating the bastard into the Bolton fold. Even then, Pryskilla always had trouble believing that completely, but then she thought of Sansa Stark. _Look what love has done to her!_

An equally insistent voice stated that hers was not true love, not in any sense of the word. Love for stories and titles perhaps, but not for the prince. _Daft little shite prince_. She felt the smile turning her lips again and quashed it immediately. No need to give the girl more to gossip about.

"Quite." She said with finality.

* * *

 **Next Chapter: A wedding long awaited...**


	12. XII

**Here, without further ado, is Part 1 of the wedding. Initially I had hoped to do it all as one, but it was taking longer than I would have liked, therefore you get to see the first portion of it and the next will hopefully be out in a day or two. I hope you enjoy! Please review if you can!**

* * *

 **Cersei**

Concerning the North, disappointing was oft the first word that came to the Queen's mind. It was dark, and dismal, and the closest thing they had to a barbarian was that ghastly northern lord with the flayed man sigil, though even _he_ had better manners than her husband. Better yet, the man possessed the supreme talent of knowing when he wasn't wanted, something very few had the presence of mind to learn. His daughter, on the other hand, was not nearly so tolerable.

Cersei was quite exhausted and disgusted to be treated every night to the girl's quiet derision, the knowing little grins… As if she knew _anything_ about the world. And now it was the little chit's wedding day. How _wonderful._

Generally, the unspoken custom was that the other ladies of the house help the bride prepare for the main event. In this case, it fell to Catelyn Stark, her daughters, and whichever other little tittering fools flitted about the halls. Cersei had no intention of joining them, and almost got away with keeping Myrcella from it as well, but Robert had drunkenly insisted that she participate, mumbling something about preparation for her own wedding. As if she could learn anything from the Bolton Bitch, except, perhaps, how to behave like a fool.

No woman should be so content with an arranged match, being bartered for and traded like common livestock. No woman had the right to look so happy.

Moreover, it was downright insulting to have a wedding during a royal visit. But, yet again, the subtleties of courtly etiquette were utterly lost on Robert Baratheon. The great oaf thought only of his own pleasure – the wine he would drink, and the whores he would fuck. If Cersei attempted anything even close to that in public she would be cast out like yesterday's rubbish, all because she lacked a cock and a king's crown. Perhaps she ought to take Jaime and fuck him in the marital bed, just like Robert had done at his own brother's wedding. It would be sweet, poetic revenge – against the king, against the Starks and the bloody Boltons, against the dead woman who'd ruined her marriage before it even began.

Cersei Lannister laughed bitterly between sips of Dornish Red. _Were you happy, Lyanna Stark? Were you happy with your silver prince that you stole from me?_

She continued this way for the remainder of this morning and most of the afternoon until it was time to prepare herself for the ordeal to come. She donned her jewels, and her Lannister red, and her plaster smile, ready to brave the feasting and debauchery for another blasted night. Then, she went to the Bolton girl's chambers, intending to make a perfunctory appearance and collect her daughter.

As it had been at her own wedding, the sounds of jubilant women echoed all the way down the corridor, growing to a trilling crescendo at the bride's threshold. A young maid allowed her in and at once the noise ceased.

"Your grace." Catelyn Stark greeted her on behalf of the rest of them, but the queen's eyes went past the Lady of Winterfell and to the slender figure in white seated at the vanity. Her face was nearly blank, but still, she glowed with that particular radiance all maidens share on their wedding day. Cersei was struck with a sudden feeling of bitter sentimentality. No doubt she looked the same way before meeting Robert Baratheon in the Sept of Baelor.

"I've come to speak with Lady Bolton, wish her luck in her marriage."

"Yes, of course, your grace," Catelyn smiled graciously, "It is time for the rest of us to prepare as well. We shall leave you in peace." At their Lady's behest, the rest of the women filed out, leaving only the queen, the bride, and the maid.

"Your grace, you honor me with your presence." The bride inclined her head, careful not to disturb the half-finished braids adorning her pale hair.

"I would be remiss in my duties as a queen and a mother if I did not." She moved to stand behind her, picking up where Catelyn Stark had left off. The girl went tense beneath her hands, "There, now don't you look beautiful?" She said when she was finished. The end result was a style too complicated to be of the North and too free to be of Southern make, with braids coiling around the back of her head and down through the sleek mass of pale hair piled artfully at the nape of her neck. Cersei was too proud to admit anything approaching envy.

"Thank you, your grace."

"Do you have any idea what your marriage will hold?"

"I have a fair idea. Consummation, children, a lordship."

"You forgot one thing," Cersei curled her lip over her teeth, "Infidelity. Even the most honorable of men cannot keep to their marriage vows for long. Just look at Lord Stark, the most honorable man in Westeros. Sired a bastard right out of the gate. If you are lucky your Ironman will conduct it quietly, under the table and away from the public eye, but I do not think you are marrying such a man. He will be much more like Robert, one whore at dinner and then another for desert. No one woman can keep a man like that happy for long." The Bolton girl's expression was stricken and disbelieving and Cersei relished in it, "Take comfort in your children. It will be the only love you can give unconditionally. Good day to you, Lady Bolton. And good luck."

Cersei Lannister left that room feeling better than she had in a long time.

 **Pryskilla**

She pondered the queen's words long after she left in a flourish of red silk and golden hair. In her chest, she felt the deep burn of righteous anger. How dare her! Saying those awful things and then acting like she did her a favor!

"Bloody, bitter woman," Pryskilla hissed. Sela gave her a sympathetic look as she affixed the heavy Bolton cloak around her shoulders, "Not every man is Robert Baratheon!"

"Come now, milady. Don't let her get to you. Not on your wedding day," the maid reached up to smooth down a piece of Pryskilla's hair which had come out of place, "Frown too much and you'll get wrinkles."

Pryskilla sighed, allowing a little grin to tug unwillingly at her mouth.

"And we can't have that now can we? You are right, Sela, as usual," She rolled her shoulders, unused to the weight she bore. Was this what it felt like for the men? Riding into battle in full mail and plate? Granted, her battle was very different, but a battle no less. If Cersei wanted to wage war on her good fortune then she would rise to the occasion. _Our blades are sharp_ , she thought. And a Bolton never bends.

It was then that a knock came at the door. Her father, no doubt, ready to take her to the Godswood and give her away to Theon. She wondered if he had ever anticipated having an Ironborn for a goodson.

"Are you ready?" Came his spidery voice, a mere whisper of wind that signaled a coming storm.

"I am," she answered, and joined him. Sela followed behind to carry her train.

He led her down, through the halls of the Kings of Winter and into the great, towering Godswood which was packed with more bodies than Pryskilla had ever seen. In the dusky lamplight, the ancient trees seemed more ominous than usual, leering over the gathered company like great, deathly sentries. She looked for familiar faces amongst the household staff, and then the guards, and finally the high lords, of which there seemed many. On her left were the Starks, all with straight postures and stoic features, except for the women. Sansa and Lady Catelyn wore serene smiles, while Arya looked as though she'd rather be anywhere than here. The bastard Jon Snow was not visible.

On her right were the Lannisters, the imp with his sardonic grin and Jaime, the golden lion. Next to them and opposite the Starks, the royal family stood erect and haughty and proud. Golden as the two Lannister brothers. Pryskilla could not withhold a tiny sneer when she notice the younger children clutching their mother's skirt, scared stiff while their Stark counterparts held firm. Cersei had raised them weak. Her elder son, however, smiled at Pryskilla with something akin to lechery, possibly the only thing of Robert Baratheon to pass to him. The fat king grinned as well, but stood apart from the rest of his family.

 _Odd,_ Pryskilla recalled thinking only later, for her thoughts were gone in a second, like a wisp of smoke on a windy day, when she at last dared to look at her husband to be.

In the golden light, before the stern-faced heart tree, Theon Greyjoy stood taller than any man present. He looked freshly washed and shaved for the occasion, but still possessing of a rugged, untamed handsomeness that no amount of primping or finery could take away. Upon his chest, against a background of ebony velvet, the golden kraken glared in defiance of everyone.

Then Lord Stark stepped forward.

"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" He pronounced in a clear, firm voice.

"Pryskilla of House Bolton comes here to be wed," her father answered, nearly inaudible but no less authoritative, "A woman grown, trueborn and noble, comes to beg the blessings of the Old Gods. Who comes to claim her?"

Theon, the picture of complete confidence, moved forward until he was even with Lord Stark, his expression high and haughty.

"Theon of House Greyjoy, heir to Pyke and the Iron Islands," his voice rang clearer than either of the two lords before him, "Who gives her?"

"Roose of House Bolton, her father." Lord Stark paused before saying the next bit, carefully taking the measure of the Lord of the Dreadfort and then Pryskilla.

"Will you take this man?" he said to her. She looked to her betrothed, and as she met his dark gaze, passionate and assured, she felt all uncertainty leave her. The queen's words would have no sway over her now.

"I take this man." She said it, meant it, and sealed her fate.

Theon offered her his hand and, as one, they knelt before the heart tree. Pryskilla felt the deep pull of naked sentiment that often accompanied prayer. With it, too, a new sensation of solidarity with the man at her side that was compounded by the deafening silence which descended quite suddenly over the Godswood. _Unity,_ she thought. _From this moment forth, it is together or not at all_.

She felt the beat of his heart through his warm, rough palm and understood that he knew it too. The brief, silent prayer that, in reality, lasted only a few moments seemed to stretch on for eons. It could have been just the two of them before the old gods, and though both were fully clothed, neither had ever felt barer than at that moment, with all of their sins laid out in vicious, wonderful clarity for all to see. The feeling was intensely humbling, but Pryskilla supposed that she could have endured any amount of judgement for her wrongs, so long as he was by her side.

When the moment was over Pryskilla rose with him, and, soon, the heavy maiden's cloak with the flayed man embroidered in stark, horrifying relief against the pink fabric made its departure from her shoulders. She shivered, but not from the cold. For that brief instant, she was nameless, neither Bolton nor Greyjoy. And then a new burden came to rest upon her. Theon had unclasped his own cloak, and with tender hands, draped it around her. She felt his breath as he did so.

The long, sable garment, adorned with the great golden kraken of House Greyjoy, contrasted brilliantly with the white of her gown, the paleness of her skin and hair. Pryskilla looked up into his eyes when he fixed the clasp at her throat. They were dark as before, but filled with an emotion she couldn't begin to describe. Something deeper than desire, and more sincere than arrogant pride. She wondered how she could have possibly believed the awful things Cersei had said before. It seemed like they had been uttered months, _years,_ before. In another life.

A breath left her. The erratic pounding of her heart became steady and measured _. It was done._ They were husband and wife.

A loud cheer went up from somewhere behind them, probably the king, but Pryskilla hardly heard it. In what was most likely a rush of elated passion, Theon drew her into a deep kiss, eliciting more whoops and fond laughter from the crowd. Such a thing was not necessary for a Northern wedding, but Theon did it anyway and Pryskilla wasn't about to correct him. He was more intoxicating than a cask of the Arbor's finest vintage.

"You've got all night, lad! Don't wear her out now!" Robert Baratheon bellowed in his rumbling baritone. Pryskilla broke away but was not ashamed, and Theon kept her closely by his side, grinning broadly all the way into the Great Hall.

As she passed by, she turned her eyes directly on Queen Cersei, intent on letting her know just how happy she was. The woman glared poisonously. _Good,_ Pryskilla thought. _Let her eat her words._


	13. XIII

**Heyyyy, I'm back, a little later than promised, but you wouldn't believe how hard it is to write certain... aspects of a wedding night. No pun intended. Anywho, I hope you enjoy and I apologize in advance for a lack of Asha in this chapter. It was my intention to include her but the way the scene ended up ending I couldn't bring myself to include another section. You'll see what I mean. If you have any advice comments, concerns, please let me know, I would love to hear your thoughts! Which reminds me, there's a scene within this chapter that was inspired by HPuni101 which has to do with Joffrey, and I'd like to give her credit for the idea. Cheers!**

* * *

 **Theon**

Their wedding feast was a respectable, twenty-five course affair with music and mead aplenty. Theon looked up and down the hall with complete contentment. Never before had there been a feast in his honor, and truthfully, in all of his wildest fantasies, had he ever imagined there being one. Now, he was sat in the place of honor in the center of the head table, between the Starks and the royal family, his detractors beneath him and his pretty, elegant wife at his side.

The newly-minted Lady Greyjoy gazed up at him with happy fondness, her white teeth sparkling against cherry lips, and Theon marveled, yet again, how Pryskilla could possibly be the daughter of Roose Bolton. She was absolutely nothing like him.

Shortly into the feast came the presentation of the wedding gifts, and Theon was quite satisfied to see that where they lacked in number, they made up for in quality. From Lord Stark came a newly forged longsword, elegantly inlaid with thin veins of yellow gold in the pommel and cross-guard and bound with supple, ebony leather. It was thoughtful, subtle, and serviceable. And something Theon had not expected. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Ned Stark had given him a gift. The man, already not prone to material displays of affection (or any displays, for that matter), was among the last people from whom Theon had come to expect thoughtful gift-giving. He was but a hostage in Winterfell – disliked by many and tolerated by very few – Lord Stark didn't need to treat him like he might a son, and truth be told, Theon would almost rather he didn't. It blurred the lines too much.

Even so, he thanked Lord Stark sincerely, if a little awkwardly, for the sword. Lady Stark, likewise, presented Pryskilla with several bolts of the finest wool, all in Greyjoy colors. Again, a practical and considerate gift, which his bride seemed very humbled (and a little befuddled) to receive.

Then, Lord Bolton approached, bringing with him two cages, each containing a fierce-eyed bird of prey with a speckled underside. Pryskilla's eyes lit up at the sight of them.

"Northern goshawks," he said by way of explanation, "A formidable and worthy companion for any hunter."

"Thank you, Lord Bolton. We appreciate it immensely," Theon replied. He had never hawked before in his life, but was certainly willing to learn if it made Pryskilla grin at him like that. Not to mention the stir it would make back at home if he came riding in with a hawk on his arm, castle-forged steel on his hip, and a pretty young wife at his side.

Robb, following in his father's footsteps, gave Theon an excellent yew longbow which he could hardly wait to test in the field. He thanked his friend sincerely and then Robert Baratheon roared something about having his gift idea stolen, before proceeding to present them with a pair of beautifully crafted saddles imprinted with similar motifs of krakens and waves in the black leather. He appeared immensely satisfied with their looks of wonderment, and launched quickly into a lewd comment about Pryskilla being too sore to ride. From the queen and her eldest there was nothing - which surprised no one - but her two youngest children saw fit to bestow upon Pryskilla a tortoiseshell kitten, apparently named Lord Purr. Theon suggested they take their first dance after that.

Pryskilla accepted his hand and allowed him to lead her from the dais and onto the floor, where, at once, all eyes turned to them. Theon did not give her a chance to observe and be unnerved by the onlookers. He took her in his arms, finding that she fit impeccably, like an arrow to a bowstring, and began the steps in earnest. The song was quick and lively and the dance complicated, but she was endowed with a hunter's grace that few possessed, looking him fearlessly in the eye for the duration. He grinned back at her, a foreign thrill flaring in his chest, and held her closely. This simple fun seemed novel for some reason, perhaps due to the circumstances, but Theon was quite sure he had never thrown himself into a dance so readily, nor with so engaging a partner. Pryskilla matched him step for step, pushing him as hard as Ser Rodrik ever had in the yard, and he pushed back just as much, partner and competitor at once.

"You are a very spirited dancer, my lady," he said when they had collapsed back in their seats, both sweating and breathless but brimming with elation. Pryskilla giggled, for once completely unguarded. Theon thought she looked best that way.

"I try, my lord," was her reply. He laughed and kissed her again, a bit more roughly than before, for his blood was up.

"You ought to save some energy though, for our wedding night."

"Alas, my lord, it is not myself I worry about." Pryskilla gazed at him coyly from beneath her lashes. Theon arched a brow, smirking now.

"Is that a challenge?"

"I would never dream of such a thing! Theon!" As he had done on horseback those days ago, he gathered her in his arms and pulled her onto his lap, though unlike before, he did not worry for keeping his hands anchored at neutral territories. One went to her thigh, the other to her ribs, just beneath her breast. Damn whomever happen to look upon them now.

"You'll find that I very rarely run out of energy, _Lady Greyjoy_ ," he growled, but let her go with a playful push. There would be time enough for that later.

"Look who draws near," Pryskilla righted herself and put on a genial smile, directed toward the eldest Baratheon prince who was fast approaching. Like his mother and uncle, he shared that peculiar superiority all Lannisters seemed to possess, keeping his head and chin raised and his shoulders back pompously. Theon was hard pressed to find any of the famous Baratheon constancy - or indeed anything even remotely _likeable -_ in the lad's mien.

"Your grace," they stood, offering the proper courtesies but meaning none of them.

"My lady," the prince greeted formally, but disdainfully, in return, directing everything towards Pryskilla, "I've heard tell that you know how to flay a man. Is it true?"

Her brows shot up at the impudent question, clearly surprised and more than a little offended. Theon pulled his lips back over his teeth in a warning snarl at Joffrey Baratheon, who coolly sipped at his wine.

"Your grace," he began, "I don't think such talk is appropriate-

"No one asked you, squid," Joffrey snapped, "I am the prince, and I want to know how it is done. Tell me. I command it." Pryskilla opened and closed her mouth, exchanging a glance with Theon who seethed silently. Then, much to his pride, she took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and looked the prince in the eye. Under the table, Theon felt her hand on his thigh, asking him to let her fight this particular battle. He acquiesced.

"Well then, if my prince commands it, I certainly cannot refuse. But you must be sure to pass on my apologies to the queen for any turned tummies this night," her voice and subsequent smile were sweeter than sugar and slightly conspiratorial, disguising any ill-intent, "A flaying is rather simple to conduct. You just start at an extremity, say a finger, or a toe, or… something else, and then you just work your way in. That way, the wretch stays alive as long as possible, sometimes even until you start on the head," Theon didn't know what was more disturbing – the gory explanation told so candidly in such a sweet tone, or the way her expression darkened suddenly, her voice taking on a deep, flinty undertone, "If you do it right, with a proper blade, it's like _peeling an orange."_

Even Theon felt a shiver run down his spine as she whispered the last bit. Her hand was poised as if she actually held the fruit.

"As my father would say, _'a naked man has few secrets, but a flayed man has none,'"_ she leaned forward, as though to impart a great unknown upon the royal heir, "Do you have many secrets, my prince?"

Theon smothered a stabbing laugh when all the blood drained from the prince's face.

"Oh," Pryskilla's hand flew to her mouth in mock concern, "Have I been too graphic? You must accept my deepest apology, your grace, but I did warn you. Flaying is not for the faint of heart."

The boy said nothing. Instead, he just stood and walked slowly away, a disgusted, disturbed look on his face.

"You're all _barbarians."_ Were his parting words. Theon, for his part, was absolutely thrilled. Who knew that all it took to break the little bastard were a few harsh words sweetly uttered?

"Good Gods, that was brilliant," he uttered, "The highlight of my evening, I think." Pryskilla looked straight ahead over the rim of her goblet, hiding a little smirk.

"I certainly hope not." The implication of her words sent the blood straight to his loins. Quickly, before he embarrassed himself in front of her, he changed the subject.

"Is that really how a flaying is done?"

"In theory. In practice, it is most gruesome. And messy."

"You've seen it done?"

"Yes," she nodded gravely, lowering her tone to a whisper, "My father made my brother and I watch once, to 'toughen our nerves,' he said. Domeric could hardly handle it. He left as soon as father got past the elbow. I made it to the shoulder."

Theon dropped his gaze to the dark red wine in his cup. It looked like blood.

He did not know what to do, let alone what to think, following that particular revelation. How could a father subject a child to that, let alone his _daughter?_ Force them to watch as he carved up some poor bastard; it was sickening. Though, come to think of it, Theon's own father was not above doing something similar. Though his pleasures extend to less exotic forms of torture - keel hauling, for instance, or just a plain old sword in the gut and dagger in the eye – he had insisted on shattering their childhood softness early on, especially that of his first two sons. Hard times and hard men, as it were.

"I think, my lady, that your father and mine would get along swimmingly."

"Oh, what a world that would be."

Silently they sat, consuming wine and ale, until Robb came to ask Pryskilla for a dance. Theon watched her go, contemplating the inspiring sheen of silk brocade over her rear as she humored his best friend and many more after that with a song or two. At one point he even spotted the Kingslayer himself taking a turn with her. Jaime Lannister was, as always, arrogant and utterly composed, but Theon was satisfied to see the focused determination in his eyes when he tried to keep up with Pryskilla's intricate movements. He did, but not without significant effort.

Sometime later, when the Golden Lion had finally bowed out, Pryskilla met his eyes across the room and Theon gave her a smirk that was so bold in its suggestiveness, she missed a step and faltered momentarily. He chuckled to himself.

"You know, I haven't seen you look this happy in a long time," Robb's tone was candid, matter-of-fact, steeling the observation. He approached casually.

"And I don't think I've ever seen you look so smug," Theon returned, offering him a brotherly slap on the shoulder.

"No, I wouldn't think so. Usually you're the smug one."

"Usually."

"But tonight you're happy _and_ smug. I'm glad." The two of them shared a laugh as any two brothers might. Theon reflected that he was closer to Robb, the son of his captor, than he ever was to his true brothers _. Woe is life and all its great ironies,_ "It's nice to see you bumbling about like a love-struck fool."

Theon shot him a glare.

"You would, too. If it was your wedding."

"We'll see."

"Has Lord Stark received any proposals?"

"The Mormonts and the Karstarks have offered. I believe there was some correspondence from the Reach. Otherwise I know not."

Theon was about to say more when the fat king stood abruptly and roared for the bedding ceremony. A raucous cheer went up and Theon and Pryskilla found themselves surrounded by a swarm of lords and ladies, most of them drunk, tearing at their clothes and herding them towards the doors. Theon recognized a few of the women pawing at him, those with whom he'd indulged in illicit affairs at one time or another. He could tell because they were the only ones glaring at him with murder in their eyes and were a little over-zealous in their molestation of his person. From across the room, he could see Jon Snow nearly doubled over with laughter, but he was far less vexed by it that he thought he would be.

The only thing concerning Theon at that moment was who was manhandling his bride. Would it be the fat king? His lustful, sawed-off goodbrother? The little shite prince himself? His fist clenched with vengeful ferocity at the very notion of it. Fortunately, he and Robb had an understanding, and the Stark heir would do his utmost to defend her honor in the midst of this debauched, wine-soaked ceremony. This would be the last time any other man laid a finger on her.

Before he knew it, Theon was stripped and discarded outside the wedding chambers without much fuss, shortly followed by Pryskilla who, thankfully, retained her small clothes and looked more vexed than embarrassed by the whole ordeal, even with the jeering, slavering men surrounding her. One of the men, a Lannister, gave Pryskilla a shove so she fell into his arms. Robb gave Theon a look as if to say _'I tried my best.'_

"Be careful not to wear that wench out, Greyjoy!" King Robert bellowed, but the only ones to hear it were those gathered outside. Theon had drawn them both away and slammed the door, slumping against it as though the mob might try to come in after them. His bride perused the room, trying not to look at him, unclothed as he was.

"Did any of them hurt you?" He demanded when the clamor died down outside. Pryskilla huffed a little laugh, shaking her head.

"No, but the Southerners seem to like to go north and the Northerners tend to head south." Theon didn't know whether to laugh with her or seek violent retribution when the meaning dawned on him, but one glance at her – wearing naught but her smallclothes, a healthy flush creeping down her breasts – he made his decision. Retribution could wait until morning.

Theon crossed the room in two strides and pulled her to him, crushing his lips to hers. A shudder ran through him at the contact. Without her heavy silk dress and various petticoats and shifts, Theon could feel everything. Her soft arms twining around his neck, her shapely breasts pressing into his chest, her hips canting into his, chafing him wonderfully down below. All of it was made even better by the knowledge that his enforced month-long celibate stint was finally _, finally,_ at an end and Gods did he want her.

"Turn around," he commanded and she complied, disentangling herself from him gracefully with not a trace of hesitation.

First, his fingers went for her hair, releasing it from its plated confines so it tumbled down her back like a gleaming river of pale gold. Then he attacked her smallclothes, the confining corset laced up the back. He wished desperately for a knife at that moment, that he might simply slice through the strings and be done with it, but alas he had to make do with what he had. Pryskilla giggled when he snarled in desperate frustration. For the life of him, he didn't understand why women had to wear such things. The ones who did were shapely enough already, even without the help of muslin and whalebone, while the ones who would have benefitted the most had no need to catch the eyes of men. At last, Theon achieved his goal and the stiff undergarment came away easily, leaving her bare from the hips up. The little gasp that came from her lips when his hands rose to cup her breasts was practically music to his ears. _The sound of a true maid,_ he thought, _not a whore._ _Never again._

"Better than I ever knew," he whispered to no one but himself. If Pryskilla heard his words her only acknowledgement thereof was the subtle pressure of her fingers on his wrist as she surrendered herself to his embrace, warm and real in his arms. Something like sentiment hit Theon square in the chest as he pondered that very simple fact. No longer would the Starks have a monopoly over his existence. He had a partner now, an ally away from them all, just for him. Now all that was left was to complete the act.

With such thoughts in mind, he lowered his head and grazed his teeth along her neck, just beneath her ear. His hands sought a new prize, roving down her long torso to her hips, where his fingers blindly found the final bit of material separating her from him and pushed it down her slender legs. None of this, the workings of a woman's body, was new to him, but, even so, Theon's heart galloped in his chest when he touched her there. She was dripping for him.

He pressed himself to Pryskilla from behind, eager to feel her as she squirmed against him. The careful ministrations he lavished upon her cunt had her nearly incoherent in his arms. It was most gratifying, if not also gripping, to see the normally reserved, polished lady fight for control against herself and lose. Even more so when he swept his thumb over her pearl and she came undone for good, sobbing and keening in that way particular to maidens.

"Gods, that was…" Pryskilla gasped, recovered some, "I never knew that-

"Shhh, my lady, there is more yet to come. I know what I'm doing," he murmured. The dark promise was accompanied gladly by action. Pryskilla gasped when he picked her up, but instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist and allowed him to carry her to the bed where she was gently deposited. For a moment, Theon just looked at her and the inspiring, erotic sight she made sprawled on the coverlet, awaiting him. More inspiring still was the knowledge that he was the only man who would get to see her like this. It rendered him still with momentary wonder.

It was true, she possessed none of Ros' soft sensuality, but rather a certain shy sincerity that Theon swiftly decided was just as good. Maybe even better. With Pryskilla Bolton, he knew none of it was pretend. When she sighed, or moaned, or clawed him bloody and cried his name, she meant it. Perhaps she would ruin him for fucking after all.

"Why do you hesitate?" she whispered. Her fingers brushed lightly over his cheek, as though she were only now becoming accustomed to touching him freely. He laid a kiss on her wrist, contemplating briefly that he could break one of her arms if he had a mind to, so narrow and delicate were they.

"Admiring your beauty, Pryskilla. That's all." He was surprised when she scoffed at him. More so when she rose up and connected their lips of her own volition.

"You know how I hate flattery," She bluffed humorously, stretching out, sinuous as a feline beneath him, "We Boltons respect only action."

He cocked a suggestive brow in return.

"You're not a Bolton any longer."

"No, I'm not," she let him part her legs and settle there, poised over her just so, "I'm yours, Theon."

At her words, Theon pushed past her maidenhead and sheathed himself within her, indisputably claiming Pryskilla Bolton for his own, from this day until the end of his days. It was just as good as he knew it would be.

* * *

 **Next up: An untimely arrival...**


	14. XIV

**Fourteen **

**Pryskilla**

Waking up alongside someone was an entirely alien experience for Pryskilla. Though not nearly as much as the marks on her neck and chest, or the ache between her legs. Those were the first things she noticed, swaddled in silken sheets and heavy furs, the pale dawn light filtering in through the window, and her limbs tangled with her husband's. _Gods…_ what a concept.

She tilted her head to look upon him. He was still asleep, but Pryskilla found herself admiring the gentle fluttering of his eyelashes against his cheek as he dreamed. The sight tugged at something tender in her heart.

Pryskilla was by no means a sentimental sort of person, but experiencing such intimacy where she had initially doubted any would exist, especially after a night of such exquisite pleasure, was quite overcoming. She recalled almost everything Lady Dustin had told her about consummating her marriage, and she knew it could be pleasurable, depending on the man, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of it. Theon was an excellent lover. He certainly knew how to please – _Gods…_ sometimes it felt like he knew her own body better than she did - and he took what he wanted without condescending to ask. For that singular quality, Pryskilla found that she was endeared far more to him. She never would have been brave enough to take the lead as he did, so perhaps his whoring really was a blessing in disguise.

With a sigh, she stretched languorously so the length of her body was pressed flush to his. The feeling was an erotic one and she felt a shiver run through her, despite the warmth. She resettled her head against his chest and her hand on his strong stomach, lulled by the rhythmic beating of his heart.

It was some time before Pryskilla awoke again, and when she did Theon was staring down at her, an indecipherable light in his dark eyes and a wonderful, carefree sort of allure about him. She thought he had never looked more handsome.

"Hello," she whispered, it seemed inadequate but she was unsure of what else to say. What did one say, after a night like that?

"You're still here," he said it with a small grin, as though he'd just been presented with a great gift.

"Of course I am," she murmured softly, "Where else would I be?"

"I don't know, but you're the first one who has." Pryskilla leaned into his hand when he ran his fingers through her hair, cupping the side of her head in a surprisingly tender gesture. No more words were needed after that. For the first time, she acted before he did, kissing him long and slow and soft, a stark contrast to the rough urgency of the previous evening. He seemed contented with that - the gentle touching of chapped, kiss-swollen lips - only momentarily. His hands went to the especially sensitive area at the small of her back, sending a rush of feeling up her spine, and maneuvered her so she straddled him. Already, she felt him hardening, stiff against her stomach. In his eyes was the same heated desire as last night.

"Again? Haven't you had enough?" she laughed, though she could feel herself growing aroused again, too. He'd had her three times last night, and at first she worried that she wouldn't be able to keep up, but shortly into their wedding night, Pryskilla found that she possessed just as voracious an appetite as he.

"Never," Theon growled and rose to meet her, but it was not needed. She knew what to do. With a hiss, she lowered herself onto him, unconsciously arching her back when he filled her completely.

Despite the lighthearted overture, their lovemaking was poignant and unhurried. Pryskilla gave him the best of herself, everything she had, and when she reached her peak, she found that it was leagues better than any of the times last night. He, too, seemed to arrive at a new level of euphoria, rising up and holding her tightly to him, teeth tightly clenched as though in pain when his own release was upon him.

"Now have you had enough?" Pryskilla gasped, her breath ragged as a wandering crow.

"For now."

"Good, because if we keep those maids waiting any longer they're like to beat down the door." They shared a laugh, but, just as Pryskilla said, the maids were not remiss in their duties and emerged in a flurry the instant she issued a sharp ' _come in!'_

"I will escort you to breakfast!" Theon called when the maids herded him away to do his own bathing and dressing. Pryskilla attempted to throw him one last smile but the flurry of furious serving women precluded such a gesture.

"Alright, all of you, do your business in the bedchamber and leave Lady Greyjoy to me!" That was Sela, barking orders like a regular military commander. From her position near the vanity, wrapped in a silken dressing gown, Pryskilla had to smile, "Come on, arses to elbows! We don't 'ave all morning!"

"Dear Sela, you ought to have been born a man," she opined, once the room had quieted and she sat submerged in her bath, "You certainly sound enough like one."

The maid only smirked and busied herself with washing Pryskilla's hair.

"You would know more about that than I, milady."

Pryskilla did not bother to hide the wry grin that came over her.

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Everyone was talking last night, you ought to 'ave heard 'em."

"Oh? And what do they say this time?"

"Mostly how detestable you are. How vapid and coquettish," Pryskilla hummed in approval – if the castle doxies hated her then she must be doing something right, "Oh, also there was something about Bolton women being screamers after all."

That bit made her nearly choke on her own tongue. She turned on Sela in indignation.

"I am not a screamer!"

"Of course not, milady."

"Bloody gossips… Was there anything of substance?"

"Not really, everyone else was drunk out of their minds. Sounded more like a brothel than a Lord's keep. The king made sure of that."

"And yet they think _I'm_ the screamer."

Sela chuckled and finished bathing her in a companionable silence. Pryskilla took a breath, closed her eyes, and stretched out, content to let someone else do the fussing. Unconsciously, he hands gravitated to her stomach.

"I think I shall be with child soon. You may want to begin letting out my dresses."

"A bit premature, don't you think, milady?"

"Perhaps, but it is never too early to plan for the future." The maid attempted and failed to hide a smirk.

"Is he really that good of a lay?"

"You have no idea."

Pryskilla rose from the bath, donned her smallclothes, and allowed Sela to finish dressing her. Her gown for the day was one of the cheerier garments she owned, made of heavy samite the color of cornflowers with yellow kingcups embroidered around the hemlines.

"Any jewelry, milady?" Pryskilla shook her head. Aside from the Bolton ring, she never wore jewelry, and now that she was no longer a Bolton, even that would be put away, "As you wish. If that's all, you'd best not keep your young man waiting any longer."

She was unable to resist the broad grin that came over her.

"Right you are, Sela."

Theon, freshly washed and dressed more casually than Pryskilla had ever seen him, awaited her in the small antechamber. He stood when he caught sight of her and was not shy about looking her up and down, taking in her appearance.

"Do I meet your discriminating standards, my lord?" She teased, chin pulled up imperiously. Theon answered her challenge in kind, walking a slow circle around her as if she were a prize mare.

"You'll do," he said it with that ironic smile Pryskilla had come to appreciate. She knew he jested, but it did not stop the good-natured roll of her eyes, "I haven't seen that one before."

He meant her gown.

"Perhaps you just weren't paying attention," was her retort as he led her down the hall.

"Maybe not," Theon said, and then leaned down, close to her ear, "I'd pay more if your gown was off."

Pryskilla had nothing to say to that. She shut her mouth, a blush quick in coming. Theon smirked more broadly than ever.

"If you keep grinning like that people are going to start to think I'm some kind of Lysene whore," she groused.

"Shouldn't a wife please her husband?" They halted before the doors of the great hall. Theon faced her, as serious as he was jesting.

"Do I?" Pryskilla ventured softly.

"More than any Lysene whore could." His fingers were in her hair again, stroking softly as if he couldn't resist doing it, just like she couldn't resist leaning into his hand like some great cat, "I think I've changed my mind about breakfast."

"Don't you dare, I am hungry."

With that she turned and marched them in, and, predictably, every eye turned on them. Pryskilla schooled her features carefully, unwilling to allow any of them to know her mind, but even her best attempt at discretion could not throw her father off the scent. Lord Bolton fixed her with a cool, questioning gaze. _Have you done your duty?_ He seemed to say. Pryskilla answered him with a slow blink.

There were notable absences at the table this morning. Lord and Lady Stark were nowhere to be found, nor were the King or his stunted Lannister goodbrother, though they were likely asleep beneath whichever whores they'd taken to bed the previous evening. The queen so studiously ignored them that she may as well not have been there anyway.

"Good morning, Pryskilla," Sansa Stark said brightly, "Pardon me, I mean, Lady Greyjoy."

"There's no need for titles between friends, Sansa." Pryskilla sat across from her and next to her father, with a full view of the rest of the hall.

"Of course." Down the table, Arya Stark rolled her eyes.

Breakfast was a benign affair after that. Or at least it was for Pryskilla, who was too famished to even remark upon the conversations going on around her. She loaded her plate with all manner of delicacy and tucked in, though daintily, for gluttony was no virtue. At her right, the side of Theon's mouth tipped upward in a secret smile as he loaded his plate too.

It was then, just as Pryskilla raised a section of blood orange to her lips, that a great clamor broke out. Raised voices, shouting and cursing, and the clashing of steel on steel.

"What in the seven hells is going on?" Cersei Lannister stood, as did they all, when the doors of the great hall burst open, admitting a slew of angry, rough looking, heavily armed men bearing the standard of the golden kraken. At their backs were Lord and Lady Stark, as well as a retinue of Stark guards. At their fore, was a woman of wild appearance. Black of hair and dark of eyes, with accusing, hawkish features. Greyjoy features.

Pryskilla's hand flew to Theon's when she heard him issue a startled gasp.

"Sister?" He said.

* * *

 **(The bliss couldn't last forever, could it? I will warn you, this story is going to get pretty dark, therefore I decided to go with an idyllic wedding. I hope you like it! Also, you will be interested to note that I edited the first half dozen or so chapters and changed quite a few things about the foundations of this story. It may behoove you to go through and read that so things don't get confusing in the future. I must tell you though, that new content will not be uploaded until the coming Spring because I am going to basic training in a couple of days. That being said, I look forward to seeing you all again in a few months!)**


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